


Little Beast

by codesandhearts



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 79,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codesandhearts/pseuds/codesandhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>While Merlin waits, Arthur tries to rewrites his fate.</i> The spirits in Avalon have permitted the Once and Future King to roam his past but when he realizes he can change some pages of his book, he tries to fix everything he did wrong. He tries to make Merlin proud in the only way he can: by making their destinies last a little bit longer. But destiny is a troublesome thing and he’s sure that no one can ever fix everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full notes and acknowledgements at the [LJ Masterpost](http://night-lyx.livejournal.com/31334.html#t176230%22%22) I DID THE THING YOU GUYS I'M SO HAPPY
> 
>  _I know history. There are many names in history  
>  but none of them are ours._  
>  \- little beast, richard siken

“ _Do not stand at my grave and cry_

_I am not there;_

_I did not die_.”

 - Mary Elizabeth Frye

 

He remembers his last moments.  He remembers saying thank you because there is no one in the world more deserving than this man. This man who loves him and the man he’ll always love back.

And then, he remembers being light. It’s not flying; he feels no rush of wind beneath him, he feels no strong pull of the world tugging him back down.  In fact, he feels nothing at all. It’s like being light on your toes. Like being a child, he imagines, being picked up by a parent; like swimming around in the air as if the wind has suddenly turned into water. This is all for him, this lake of beautiful lightness.

Suddenly, he remembers everything. His childhood wet nurse who used to sing to him even though his father forbade it (they were just hums and soft noises but he fell asleep to them all the same), the scent of his blanket when he was eight (like sugar and lilies), the weight of a flower crown on top of his head gifted by his friends, readying him for the day the paper would turn gold; of his first real sword in his hands and the shove from his father after, towards a match he was never ready for; his first kiss with soft lips, Morgana’s arms around him when those soft lips disappeared, the feel of guilt and power after his first kill; Guinevere’s smile and her hand around his, his father’s strong voice and presence, Morgana’s smirk as she disappeared from where he thought she would always stay; his knights, the joy around them that engulfed them like a fire until they were ashes, the strong walls and ivory towers of a kingdom that was his ; Merlin’s smile and his tears when he confessed –slowly and gently but abruptly, like a storm rolling through his heart- that his eyes had been a hidden gold all this time; he remembers wishing they had more time.

Then, nothing at all.  

 

When he wakes up, his head is in the lap of someone who is stroking his hair and singing. For a while, he thinks he is a child again and he lets himself be for another moment or two. But he knows he isn’t so he opens his eyes, blinking and adjusting to his new surroundings. There’s too much light here, like everything is illuminated .He can smell trees, too, a forest close by and he almost feels like he’s home. He wants to convince himself that if he gets up right now and goes into the trees, there will be a fire and a camp for him. But his men are not here to laugh with him and Merlin’s not here to sulk in the corner until Arthur brings him in to fit alongside all of them.

“Hello,” the voice above him says.

Arthur looks up and finally sees her face. She looks familiar, like an old dream from another life, but she’s pretty. Long dark hair and pale skin, warm eyes with an even kinder smile.

He should inch away from her touch; he doesn’t know her well enough for her to comfort him like this but he’s not alive anymore and this is a new set of circumstances. And, hell, he just needs comfort. All this time –how long has it been?- he feels like he’s been infinitely wrapped in Merlin’s arms and to have some form of contact makes it a little less worse.

He doesn’t know where Merlin is, really. But he’s not with him and that’s the thing that hurts.

“Where are we?” Arthur asks, still in this girl’s lap.

“Avalon,” she answers and he can tell from her voice that she’s been here a while. Avalon, where legends go to sleep. He’s one of them now; he’s just words on the pages of an old, dusty book. He’s a History lesson and a moral lesson. A nightmare for children and a dream for adults. He doesn’t know where all this acceptance came from, like he knows, on the surface of his being like a ripple on the water, he is dead and there is nothing anyone can do about it.

“Sire, you should go back to sleep.”

“Don’t-call me that. I’m not a king anymore.”

Arthur rolls to his side and touches her knee. He’s not anything anymore. This isn’t even the world Arthur knew. It smells different, like the trees are dipped in poison and he’ll wither if he touches them. And it feels different, too, like if he did touch them, he wouldn’t even care. He wishes he did.

“Sure you are. The king that was and the king that shall be. Unless I got the wrong Arthur Pendragon.”

“Can you just call me Arthur? I don’t want to be a king until I need to be one.” Indifference, this is what it must feel like. He’s always been much too eager and encouraged by his life; he’s just felt too much.

She runs her fingers through his hair, which reminds him of Guinevere. But he can’t tell her to stop because if this is all he has, then he’s going to take care of it. “Arthur, it is.”

“Freya.” He doesn’t know he knows her name but it’s there, swirling around in his mind. He knew her, once, maybe even led her here but she’s smiling at him and there are no grudges in afterlife. “All of a sudden, I miss everyone.”

Freya laughs, hearty and full of life –so strong against the silence- and he thinks about how, as far as companions for the afterlife go, she’s not the worst by far. “It’ll pass.”

 

The next time he wakes, Freya isn’t there. Arthur gets up from the ground and realizes he’s been sleeping on grass all this time. It’s weird. Being dead is weird.

Arthur figures this is a good time to explore his new home. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be here but he should at least get accustomed to it. Most people who die don’t really have a tendency to get reborn. He’s _special_. When you’re dead, you learn to count your blessings, no matter how little they seem.

It smells like apples here. Constantly. It’s not unpleasant, it’s actually kind of nice, but there isn’t an apple tree in sight. It makes him feel like he’s cold and fresh, like he’s just got out of a good shower and all he really needs to do is just roll around in his bed underneath his sheets, letting his body adjust to the warmth. He decides it’s a good feeling. Well, until he remembers he’s dead. But that’s moot point at this stage.

What he sees of Avalon is just a forest on an island because, along with the smell of apples, he can also sense a lake close by. There are great expanses of green and brown and orange around him, huge trees that stand tall in the distance, bushes that surrounded him in a field and there are leaves floating in the air, suspended by magic. He makes a move to get out of his own closed space, away from this field. He walks and walks on, sees another clump of trees to his left and something perched on them.

Arthur laughs. It’s a tree house. It’s decorated with a string of lights around the branches, with a balcony that overlooks him and the green space around him. It’s like a children’s drawing, all big splotches of colour –bright hues of red, blue, purple and every colour he remembers knowing- decorating the doors and walls. mismatched and odd but also lovely, like a wonderful sentiment in a world of bad intentions.

“Freya!” he yells up to the tree house.

She comes out of the door and smiles down to him. “Your Majesty.”

 

“How did you do all of this?” Arthur gestures to the tree house.

“It’s the afterlife, Arthur, there’s nothing you can’t do,” Freya says, laughing. “I always wanted a tree house when I was a kid but we were always too poor. I just thought about it one day and it was just there when I opened my eyes.”

“Interesting.”

“You could do it, too, you know. It beats living in the forest when you’re awake.”

Arthur thinks about it for a moment and asks, “What if I made a castle?”

Freya looks at him thoughtfully, feeling sorry for him –he knows, he can see it- and says, “A castle would be great.”

He leaves her then, promises to come back and see her tree house so he can explore Avalon some more. Suddenly, when he comes into a clearing, three figures appear in front of him, making him almost jump in his skin. They’re small and blue and they have wings. This really shouldn’t surprise him but he’s still new to this death lark. It doesn’t hurt that they look _mean_.

“Arthur Pendragon,” one of them says. “We are the Sidhe, the guardians of Avalon.”

“That’s...great,” Arthur says awkwardly. “Thanks for the, um, place?”

“This is the place you will rest until the world needs its king again.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He makes a move to leave because they’re not going to tell him anything he doesn’t already know. Just because they’re guarding him until he’s alive again, it doesn’t mean he’s obligated to be friends with them or anything. He has Freya. He has the apples and the promise of a sea. He’ll have his castle.

“He waits for you,” one of them says. Arthur doesn’t need to look at their face to know what they’re talking about. Merlin. Merlin’s waiting for him. The stupid idiot clearly has nothing better to do than to wait his years for him and Arthur hates him for it.

“Why?” Arthur can’t help but ask.

“Love.”

 _Then I will wait, too_ , he thinks.

 

Arthur has built his castle, bit by bit. Sometimes when the light reaches the halls just so it looks like the one he used to have but he tries not to do that deliberately. No one’s here to share his castle besides Freya. To fill it with memories he no longer has any hold on would be unfair. So he shrinks it down. The castle is big from outside but, inside, it’s just his room and a big hallway. A castle just for him. He tries not to think about how lonely it makes him feel.

He asks to see Merlin, every once in a while. He still hasn’t gotten the hang of how time works here but he hopes it works like real time. He hates to think about how Merlin might wait a thousand years but, for him, it’s only been a few days.

Merlin looks the same.

It’s the world around him that changes. Sometimes he’s not even home. He’s in France or Spain or Asia. He learns about this new world that he’s left behind through Merlin, how he lives his life. He doesn’t always watch him because he figures Merlin deserves a life outside of Arthur’s eyes and if he wants to fall in love with someone, be touched by someone underneath his sheets or have the family Arthur never could have, he deserves to do so without Arthur watching him, wishing he was there with him.

Death is unfair, he thinks, when the people you love are alive.

Slowly but surely, magic loses its place in the world. It becomes a myth and a legend and so do they. They become whispers in the night and moral values without them knowing. But their story is wrong, it’s all wrong. He wishes there was a version of their story, somewhere, somewhere they don’t know, where the people are kind and the words are soft that followed them like a ghost in their past lives, writing down their events and lives. But, also, he wishes there wasn’t.

Because what had they been reduced to?

Their stories were tragedies.

So maybe it’s easier this way. To let Merlin live in a world where people thought things were great once, for all of them.

“Can I go back?” Arthur asks the spirits once. He is watching Merlin and it’s been about forty years since Arthur’s been dead. “To the past?”

“Why?” they ask.

“I need to see him.” Really see him. He needs to see him before things were bad and complicated, before things were ruined and hard.

They look to each other, asking each other if this is a good thing to do. “You are not permitted to change anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“The past is the past. Time is not an instrument to be played around with, do you understand?”

Arthur nods and feels the corners of mouth tug upwards in a strange fashion. A smile. It’s been a while since that happened.

“Think of when you would like to go back to,” the spirits tell him.

He does, he thinks about a simpler time. When he opens his eyes, there isn’t a forest anymore, no smell of apples around him.

Arthur is in Camelot. He is inside these solid walls that have kept him confined with enough breathing space to live happily. He is in the corners of his own memory and he feels different. It’s like being alive but not really.

He can feel the stone underneath his fingers, the fresh air out the window; can hear the soft hums of the world outside and his own breathing (how is he breathing?); and can see the swish of his red cloak behind him and the world he once occupied in all its many complexities. But it’s like there is a thin fabric over everything he touches, a soft gnat around his ears, a glass window in front of him; not really letting him live properly. It’s only fair. He’s not actually alive, after all.

In seconds, he isn’t alone anymore. There are figures around him. People are beginning to fill his memories with their words and mannerisms. Guinevere is here and she smiles as she passes him. He wants to hug her then, kiss her like he used to, but the time isn’t there yet. He is still a prince here, the crown on his head is small and his title isn’t the most important; and she is still a simple serving girl, demure but outspoken all the same –the qualities that carried on when she became queen.

“Arthur!” someone’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

Merlin. _Merlin_. Bloody hell, he looks so young here.

“What, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur asks, trying his best to act like the Arthur Merlin knows best.

“You asked me to dress you for the arrival of the kings today?” Merlin  says. “Unless you’d rather greet King Olaf stark naked, of course.”

King Olaf. Arthur skipped back far, this was eight years ago. Right after he killed the Druid girl. Freya. He wishes he skipped back just a bit further.

“Don’t be stupid, Merlin,” Arthur snaps.

Merlin smiles at him now and his inanimate heart jolts. He reaches out to touch him –just for a while, just for a bit, he needs nothing more than that- and their fingers brush against each other. Arthur wishes he could feel everything, feel the warmth or coldness of Merlin’s touch, the pads of his fingers, even the accidental scratch of his nails against his own skin. But he can’t. There will always be something preventing them. Let it be destiny or fate or death, he can never really feel Merlin’s hand on his and he can’t help but blame himself.

Merlin looks at him with an expression Arthur wants to wipe clean from his face. How much has this man sacrificed for him already?

“Sire-”

“I will be there in a few moments. I have other matters to attend to first,” Arthur lies. Merlin can tell, though. Merlin never calls him ‘sire’ unless he’s joking or he thinks something is wrong.

“Okay.”

“Oh, and Merlin,” Arthur says and Merlin turns around for him. _Thank you_ , he thinks. “Take the day off tomorrow.”

Arthur goes around the corner, away from Merlin,  and tries to stop himself from running after Merlin. His eyes close and he is back in Avalon. Freya is not here, neither are the Sidhe, he’s alone in his castle. He looks around for signs of death and collapses onto his bed when he realizes he is alone. No matter how small he makes this place, it still feels so big. For the first time in a long time, Arthur cries.

 

The next time he skips back isn’t for another thirty years in his Merlin’s time. But, this time, he knows exactly where he’s going to go. He doesn’t tell Freya about these small peeks into his past, it only makes him feel worse because she can’t do the same. The Sidhe told him that they could only afford this privilege to certain people and, like it or not, Freya isn’t as important to them as he is. Even if they act like they’re seething with hate at the sight of him. Being special still sucks even in death.

Arthur psyches himself up in his bedroom. _Think of when you would like to go back to_ , they said. He breathes in deeply and then smells the scent of wood. He’s here.

“I’ll get him some clothes,” Merlin says. He goes and it’s just Arthur and Morgana.

He can’t let himself fall apart at the sight of her like this. Soft and quiet, hiding a secret underneath her skin that could get her killed but she stayed, anyway. Why? Merlin stayed because of him, he knows that now, but what was Morgana staying here for? Where her own father would hate her because of how she was born? She looks scared now and Arthur can count on one hand how many times she’s let him see that.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks her. She looks up and nods, her eyes not landing on his. “You’re scared.”

Morgana smiles a small smile at him, the expression tugging by the corner of her lips but she’s still too distressed. He has to break through to her. If this is the last time he can look at her like this, like she belongs here and knows that there won’t be a knife in the hand she’s hiding around her back, then he wants to just make sure that it’s not all for nothing.

“I’ve grown up with you, Morgana. I can tell when you’re lying.”

“I...”

“Come on, you can tell me. You’re-” Arthur stops himself. “You’re like a sister to me.”

“And you’re like an idiot brother to me,” Morgana retaliates. There she is.

“I’m not going to let any harm come to him. Or you.”

“Why, Arthur, step back, someone might actually think you _care_.”

Arthur scoffs because it’s still so true. Even when she was fighting on the opposite side, fighting against him, he could never _not_ care. In a way, he’s glad that Merlin was the one who killed her because he’d never be able to.

“I always care, Morgana. And I’ll protect you, no matter what.”

Morgana looks up to him, surprised by his sincerity. He doesn’t blame her. He hasn’t given her –or anyone else for that matter- very good reason to believe that he actually cares. How old was he here? A year after his coronation? He was still young and still thought that people were always going to be there. He was an idiot.

“No matter what?” she asks. She looks at him with soft eyes that hold no judgement behind them. _Even if I have magic?_ He can hear her silent question.

“No matter what.”

He remembers when she first came to live with them. He was eight, he thinks, and she was two years older. She was trying really hard not to look scared or sad but he knew. He’d been training with young boys all his life and he knew what it looked like when they were trying to pretend that the bruise on their side didn’t hurt or news of death from the borders didn’t affect them. But Morgana was good, she really sold it. She looked at him and at his father with a fierce determination, as if asking them –nay, _demanding_ \- why she was there in the first place.

The only way he figured out she was just pretending was that she looked exactly like what he looked like whenever someone mentioned his mother. Her eyes were cold, like she was trying too hard to be something she wasn’t until it just became normal, and she walked like there was glass on the ground. They weren’t so different, he decided.

She didn’t see it that way, though. She hated and resented him for months, she complained about everything in the castle and, most of all, she hated Uther. After a while, she kind of stopped pretending so much. He liked it when that happened. They’d swordfight and ride into the forests with their guards chasing after them and laugh when they lost them on their trail; they’d pick ripe apples from trees –Morgana even climbed a tree once and tore a bit of her dress which led them to being locked in the grounds as punishment- and smile and talk about the people in court. It was nice, being with her. He didn’t need to really do anything to please her like he had to do with other girls. Mostly because she thought he was an idiot anyway.

“Remember that time, when we were small, when Uther was so mad at us for sneaking out that he confined us to our bedrooms for two days? And we found this little hole in the wall that we used to talk to each other?” Arthur asks.

“You remember that?” Morgana laughs. She sits back down on the chair and he joins her.

“You’re a big part of my life, Morgana, I don’t forget things like that easily.”

There’s a comfortable silence that covers them. Morgana looks at Uther like she’s thinking hard about all the bad things she’s said about him and Arthur’s looking at her the same way.

“You’re not like him,” she says thoughtfully, not looking at Arthur. “You’re going to make a good king someday, Arthur.”

“Just good?”

Morgana laughs at him and smacks him on his arm. “Idiot.”

He hears a crash in the hallway and sighs. “I need to go check on Merlin. He’s probably gotten lost or something.”

“I’ll look after him,” Morgana says gesturing to Uther and Arthur nods.

He takes his sword and places it by his side. He looks at Morgana and wonders for a moment how he never figured out that they were siblings. There’s so much in her that he can see in himself, as well. Arthur dips down and leans to kiss her on the top of her head. Before she can respond –because, granted, it’s odd, he’s never been one for public displays of affection- he’s out the door.

 _Avalon_ , he thinks as he closes his eyes because he just can’t be here for what happens next.

 

It takes a while for him to tell Freya but he tells her. She isn’t mad or sorry for him, she feels no resentment towards him that he can travel back in time and see the people he loves while she can’t. She’s a better person than he is, he knows that. She asks about Merlin first, like he expects her to. It must be weird, to love someone like that.

“Did you watch him?” Arthur asks. “After you died?”

“Yeah but it just hurt for most of the time,, ” Freya continues stroking his hair as he lies on her lap.

Her tree house is big and beautiful. It makes him feel uncomfortable sometimes but this is Freya’s afterlife and maybe it’s because she’s lived with so little that she can appreciate the big open space that’s all hers.

“Why?”

“Well, Merlin kept to himself, no one could know what he was capable of and what he had to sacrifice to get there, me included, so he could never say anything. He couldn’t ever take someone aside and cry to them. He was forced to be strong and that’s what he kept pretending to be until it was all he was. He didn’t really...have anyone.”

“I feel guilty about that,” Arthur confesses. “If I’d been a little bit less stupid and self-absorbed-”

“Hey, this is not the place for self-pity.”

“Then maybe...maybe, he could’ve had me.”

“Yeah but you had him, right?” Freya asks. Silver linings, this is what afterlife is for.

"I need to go back," Arthur says to her.

And this is the best thing about Freya: she doesn't ask why. Instead, she smiles down to him and says, "Okay." He wonders about that for a moment, maybe it's because she's living vicariously through him -almost literally- and she can see Merlin through his eyes and live in the castle, like she could've done if it wasn't for him.

It has been a while since he's skipped back. He doesn't know how long it's been for him, it's like days meld together in here. It's like he knows that it's been a long time but he isn't sure. Counting in Merlin's years just seems easier.

He closes his eyes and thinks about his old life.

He's in his chambers now, alone. Where's Merlin?

"Arthur?" Merlin asks, coming into the room.

"Merlin," he says nonchalantly. He turns around to greet his manservant. This time, he makes sure to really look at him. To memorize the cleanliness of his black hair, the redness of his lips and how it's wet from licking them which Merlin does every now and then, especially when he's nervous; to remember how tall he is, how he even envies his own stature sometimes, the small quirk of the lips when he smiles; the expectancy of his eyes that look at him. For Freya's sake, he tells himself, but being dead doesn't make you a good liar.

"The, uh, feast?" Merlin says. "For Morgana's return. It's starting."

"Of course, well, what are we waiting for?"

"You?"

"Don't try to be smart, Merlin, it doesn't suit you."

"Well, one of us has to be, and I certainly can't count on you."

"Oh, haha, Merlin, that's so funny," Arthur says dryly. Merlin looks at him then, right at the eyes and then he composes himself again, like that one moment was a mistake.

"Are you alright, Merlin?" Arthur asks. "You seem more incompetent than you usually are."

"I'm fine, sire," Merlin says.

"Well, come on then," Arthur says, clapping a hand on Merlin's shoulder.

The hall is already packed, with knights and the faces he's missed. Some of his closest comrades aren't here: Gwaine, Percival, Lancelot and Elyan. It isn't time yet but he consoles himself by smiling at Leon as he sits down. His father stands up, clinks his goblet and announces Morgana's arrival. The look on his father's face is almost unbearable. He's so happy that his daughter's back in his life, in his castle, living her life around him. Arthur almost wants to shake him up and tell him it's all a lie and, in a few short months, he'll be on his knees by request of Morgana. But he can't. This isn't his life anymore.

Morgana comes in, accompanied by Guinevere and he smiles. He wonders if it'll be alright if he takes Guinevere aside after this and kisses her just because he can and she's here. Morgana hugs Uther and kisses his cheek. Arthur stands up and tries not to make his disappointment evident as she comes close to him. He expects a half-hug, made not of honesty or gratitude that he saved her, just something people do out of obligation. It was what her hugs felt like before.

But what he doesn't expect is her face lighting up when she sees him, like he's the best thing in her life. He doesn't expect that her arms around him feel like home and warmth. He doesn't expect to smile as she's holding him, knowing that she's doing it because she wants to; or for her to whisper, "I missed you," in his ear; or for him to say it back.

And the thing he thinks about as the feast goes on, as he eats in merriment and talks to his father; as he looks to Guinevere and smiles when she blushes; as he brushes his fingers against Merlin's every now and then, is that this Morgana is still his.

He looks up to Merlin and wonders what it would be like to kiss him. He stops himself and thinks of Avalon, finding him back in Freya’s tree house in moments.

"Something's different," Arthur tells her.

Freya doesn’t seem fazed by his reappearance when she asks, "How so?"

"Something about Morgana. Something about Merlin, too, how he acts around me, like he doesn't know what to do with himself. It's only sometimes, though, like suddenly he's shy and hiding behind himself. But Morgana, she...when she came back the last time, she _hated_ me. Looking back, I wondered why I didn't notice, but there wasn't the same sincerity in her eyes and whenever she had her back turned, something dropped, as if she stopped pretending. She was like that when we were kids, pretending all the time, until she found somewhere she was safe. But, here, it's still there. There's no guard up when she sees me. There's still a smile and a hug. It's different with Uther, though, but things have always been hard between them, I'm not surprised it's not the same way she treats me."

"What do you suppose that means, then?" Freya asks, sitting down by her bed next to him.

"I don't know," Arthur sighs as Freya lays her head on his lap, looking up to him.  "When we were growing up, I always thought that she believed in me, even if she'd never admit it. She thought I could do anything. And I thought the reason I couldn't keep her by my side was because she just didn't believe in me anymore. She believed I was too much like my father to be trusted. And now, it's like she never stopped believing in me."

Freya looks thoughtful, her hands playing with the hem of his shirt. He wonders when they started being so comfortable with each other but he likes it. "I think it means that, whenever you skip back and interact with people, you change things."

"But it doesn't matter, does it?" Arthur asks. "I'm just- playing. Nothing is really changing."

"Arthur, darling, I think there's a possibility that you might've changed everything," Freya says with a smile.  

 

At first, it's just an experiment, to test if Freya's right, if he has changed everything in his new old life. He starts consciously going back to his past when he is alone in his castle, thinking only about certain moments because Freya might be right and he may have just rewritten his entire life. So he goes back for a few minutes at first, just popping in for a visit. He'll see his father, whose body and mind are in good condition; Morgana, who has somehow taken to speaking out more in council -he's surprised she's even invited to those things- and, for some strange reason, painting in her free time; Merlin, who stumbles over his demeanor sometimes which he finds adorable (but Arthur won't say that, not just yet); Guinevere, who's still sweet and incredibly beautiful to the point that it almost distracts him sometimes.

That's how it starts. Visits. Freya doesn't notice when he's gone and Arthur wonders if she isn't alone in this afterlife. Death is different for everyone, isn't it? Maybe the Sidhe weren't so cruel to her, just sending her a dead king who keeps trying to live as company, and maybe there's someone here that Arthur can't see and he doesn't know. He hopes so. It's unfair that Arthur can walk through his old life like a puppet -all his limbs are moving and he talks but he is not there, he's behind a sheet and being played around by death- and Freya cannot.

And, then, somehow, the visits become longer. Minutes that turn into hours as he finds joy in fighting with his sword again and just simply talking to his father after they are the only two in the council room;  as he finds solace in this new Morgana to whom he can tell anything to without fear of judgment -well, a little judgment, she is Morgana, after all, and thrives on biting remarks on another person's life- and as he finds little bits of love that are both different and similar to each other for Merlin and Guinevere.

He never stays longer than a few hours, though, this is something he promises himself.

"I wonder how it works," Freya says to him once.

"What?"

"This whole skipping back thing. I mean, this is another life, right? Something you changed. But there's still a you when you're not there, right? When you're here, instead? It's not like time stops or anything, right?"

"I guess so," Arthur ponders. "I didn't really think about it. It's kind of instinct. Like, it's on auto when I'm back in Avalon and it keeps playing and playing but when I come back, I know what I missed. The other time, Morgana mentioned a council meeting I didn't really attend but I knew what she was talking about."

"Well, either way, I think it's nice. That you don't miss on anything in either place."

It's accidental, at first. It's a normal day, nothing spectacular in its events but Arthur is tired. He's pretty much spent the whole day with his knights and then in council with his father and Morgana so when he gets back to his chambers and to Merlin, he can barely keep an eye open.

"Tired?" Merlin asks.

"Such an astute observation, Merlin. Now, get me out of these clothes," Arthur says. He can feel Merlin’s hands all over him and he laughs out loud. How funny it all is. Living again.

"You alright?"

"As you said, Merlin, I'm tired. I'll laugh about anything. You're lucky you're just a blur to me or I might have a fit over your ears."

"I see you have all the makings of a great king, Arthur, when all you can do is laugh at your manservant's ears."

"When I'm king, I'll make you wear a hat with ear flaps so I won't have to see them and accidentally laugh in court."

Merlin helps him on the bed and Arthur moans in contentment. "I'll make sure I won't be in court, then."

"Unacceptable, you _have_ to be in court. You promised."

Merlin laughs. "What exactly did I promise?"

"That you'd always be my side, like you always are, protecting me." Arthur opens his eyes this time and looks at Merlin. Freya called him beautiful once and he can't help but agree. Death changes things. Especially if, you know, your manservant confessed that he basically lived for you.

"I never said that to you."

He never said that to him. But Arthur couldn't help but wonder if he said that to someone else. Gaius, maybe, who always knew and looked at Merlin and Arthur's destinies as if they were shared. He wondered if there was something binding him and Merlin; if Merlin had come because of that reason but stayed for him. He wanted to know all the things last breaths prevented him from knowing.

"You will," Arthur says.

"You seem to have a lot of faith in me." A blanket over his body, warmth radiating around him.

"Funny," Arthur says as he closes his eyes again, "I could say the same thing about you."

When he falls asleep, he wakes up in Avalon in his castle.

Huh.

He lies there, looking up and wondering. This could be another chance to live again. He needn't to leave Freya here and he doesn't need to leave his new old life, either. The Sidhe haven't caught up with him -he doesn't know what they do when they're not randomly popping up by his side rambling about obligation and Merlin's waiting, probably terrorizing other innocent dead people- and he has this miracle in his hands.

He has a chance to hug Morgana and his father (maybe not his father because the godsknew that he isn't a big believer in any kind of display of affection) and felt the weight of a sword in his hand, let his hands linger a little on Merlin even if he didn't know what that meant for both of them.

Arthur has been dead a hundred years in Merlin's time when he decides to live again.

 

It takes some time, obviously, trying to fit into different crevices in his life, between life and death, but he tries. He lives every day consecutively now, no skipping out on the boring parts –or so-called boring parts because he finds, even those, stimulating now that he’s dead- like waking up every morning with the sun against his skin as Merlin opens the curtains, his smile almost has bright as the sun, or training with his knights in the field until he can almost swear that he feels the sweat on his skin. Arthur tries to find different ways to live and experience, taking everything in with all his limited senses.

He tries not to let his knowledge of what he knows define him here. Merlin’s magic is still secret and, as much as Arthur wants so much more for Merlin than his ragged clothes and big secrets, it’s not time yet.

Sometimes, though, it gets hard. Snippets in his death that don’t make sense; him whispering out Freya’s name when he wakes up and hoping Merlin didn’t hear, wondering why Camelot’s castle is so big when the one in Avalon is so small, and instinctively putting a hand on his sword whenever Morgana walks past. It’s transitional, Freya says, it’s going to work out . Besides, he always remembers Freya is dead and cannot be with him here and Morgana is good, with her smiles like grace and her touches like reassurance.

She’s astute, though, Morgana. Her eyes flick to him whenever he feels like he’s falling to Avalon again, like she can tell and asks him if he’s alright. No one else really notices because he tries not to treat them as differently.Merlin finds his endearments odd sometimes but it’s nothing that Arthur can’t cover up with a confident smirk and he’s still as stumbling and foolish when he’s around Guinevere. Morgana notices, though, his transitions, because he treats her more differently than he does others.

Arthur spends more time with her, watches out for her, and even accompanies her on rides around the kingdom, where he finds peace in riding his horse and looking at the beauty of the woods and Morgana’s disposition. He plays it out as worry, because she did disappear from his life for a year, and she almost always buys it but she’s getting anxious, he can tell.

It’s a calm day today. There are no pressing matters to deal with and, when Arthur looks outside his window, the sun is soft in its brightness. Arthur’s dealing with some accounting papers and he hates it. He was never good with numbers. Morgana comes in, unannounced because she’s still Morgana here and she still doesn’t give a damn.

“Morgana,” he says and pulls out the chair next to him for her to sit down. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“What, I can’t just visit you on a whim? Simply because I care.”

“Mm, last time you simply ‘cared’ you just needed to tell me that you thought Sir Caster was visiting a brothel every other day.”

“It’s castle gossip, Arthur, I thought you wanted to know that one of your most trusted knights was banging it up in the lower town.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Please don’t ever say ‘banging it up’ or I’ll have you flogged. Now, really.”

“I really just stopped by because I care, Arthur. I’m worried about you,” Morgana’s voice is sincere and Arthur looks up from his documents to sigh. “You’ve hardly spent time with me or Uther in the past few days. You’ve always been so busy.”

“My lady, I’m heir to a kingdom, you can’t expect me to have all the free time in the world.”

It was true, though, he was getting especially busy as of late. Maybe it’s because he’s been dead for a while and hasn’t quite remembered how to manage his workload yet but Morgana’s right. He’s hardly spent any time with anyone he loves here and he’s forgotten how that feels. It’s a shame, he only has a few minutes a day to listen to Merlin’s inane chatter before he has to go someplace or do something or go back to being dead.

“But, I suppose you’re right. Maybe we’ll go riding tomorrow, as a family.”

“Picnic?” Morgana asks cheerfully.

“Sounds wonderful.” Arthur smiles at her and thinks, _this is the girl I grew up with_. “Now, leave me be.”

She doesn’t, though, she just sits there and goes on about castle gossip. the two maids who were seen together in the hallways smelling of love-making (Arthur really doesn’t know how to take that and doesn’t even want to think about how Morgana knows how love-making smells like); Sir Caster again, but now with an added bonus of the whore that he’s been infatuated with; some serving girls trying to find the correct way to describe the colour of Arthur’s blue eyes and the like.

“Did they find a way to describe them, then?” Arthur asks.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Morgana says, shrugging. “I told them to stop because I threatened to vomit all over dinner.”

“Wonderful.” And she thinks so, too.

 

The next morning finds him as the mornings always do: waking up from death with Merlin’s greetings of a new day. He welcomes it. He’s happy today, for some insane reason. He’dbetter cover it up because his old self would’ve recoiled at the thought of going out for a family picnic with his father and Morgana when there were so many other things to do, more interesting people to meet and on a wonderful day, at that.

It is a wonderful day, though, he thinks as he looks out the window Merlin’s opened. The crisp, fresh air is welcoming and the coldness of the breeze hits him right on the face and bare chest. From his window, it’s almost as if he can see the tops of his kingdom, the colours of it all. The dark brown and the dimmed gold of the market in lower town to his left; the deep green and cerulean lakes, with hints of red and purple from the new fruits and flowers of the season, to his right and the silver-trimmed whiteness of his castle and courtyard below.  He feels so alive now that it’s hard to think about where he goes when he sleeps.

Merlin silently dresses him in a simple tunic of red and brown breeches but it’s a comfortable sort of silence they’ve found over the years.

In the past few weeks since he’s been ‘living’, Arthur’s been collecting Merlin in little moments, some to tell to Freya because she loves him, too, and others to keep with him in his days of death. The way Merlin’s eyes look at him when he thinks Arthur’s being an idiot, the small sliver of skin exposed from beneath his neckerchief when he tilts his head just so; the whispers under his breath that are magical incantations that make Arthur want to laugh at how his old self missed all these signs. All in all, Arthur’s just decided to keep Merlin with him at all times.

One day, he will take him away from the castle, when it is peaceful and the kingdom is in good hands for the day and tell him he knows. Merlin will surely blush, go red from his neck up, and Arthur will have to restrain himself from kissing him. Merlin will worry, shaking with the anxiety and Arthur will laugh, slowly reassuring him that there will not be a point in his lifetime where he will let Merlin hang for being himself.

And Guinevere, too, there needs to be time for her. He still adores her something stupid and she’s still his queen, even in the light of this old-new feelings for Merlin, and he wants to act a fool around her. Make a crown of flowers for her, perhaps, tell her she’s beautiful and ask her to tell him things he already knows. Maybe he can ask about Elyan, too, and, after, make arrangements for her brother to be found and brought back to Camelot. She would like that.

The guards knock on his door and Arthur knows to leave. Merlin wishes him a good day with that mischievous smile of his and Arthur wishes there was a space somewhere in his new life where kissing him goodbye would be a good idea.

Morgana’s decided to make today a day for just them. She’s left Gwen behind and they’re only taking a few guards to ride with them, with the condition that they leave them a few feet of distance for privacy.

Arthur discretely kisses Guinevere on the cheek and takes great satisfaction in her blush before he hurries down the hallways of his castle and down the entrance’s stairs. Morgana is already seated on her white filly, dressed in a simple dress of blue and Uther’s there, as well, saddling up. His father turns around, catches Arthur’s eye and says, “Come now, Arthur, you know better than to keep Morgana waiting.”

“Ah, silly me, of course,” Arthur quips in cheerfully and mounts his horse, steadying her with soft murmurs and strokes.

Morgana turns around and winks at him before she gallops away, with Arthur, Uther and three Camelot guards behind them. They ride in silence though, somewhere after they’ve left the castle gate.Uther’s ridden forward to talk a bit with Morgana, leaving Arthur at the back of them with his thoughts. He doesn’t mind, though, there will be plenty of time to talk when they find a spot in the woods and eat their early lunch on the ground. Arthur’s surprised Uther’s agreed to this, just leaving his castle behind in the midmorning hours where things are usually their busiest for the king but Morgana does have this way of persuading people into doing things they might not normally do. Besides, Uther has always had a soft spot for Morgana, arms slightly more open than when he is addressing his son.

Minutes pass and the landscape of clean-cut, white castles and ivory towers change into the rustic brown and green palette of the forest. It’s spring, so Arthur can smell and see so many new things and grows excited from it. Avalon always just smells like apples and a faraway lake but this is different. Even through his limited senses, Arthur can see the beauty of this land and how idiotic he was before, thinking there was something better out there than where he’d always been.

Morgana and Uther come to a halt to an opening in the woods, near a small lake and dismount their horses to lay out the picnic on the ground. The trees around them seem to be alive, branches swaying and some leaves and flowers falling down on their faces, and Morgana starts humming a tune their wet nurse used to sing to them when they were children. Soon enough, the ham and cheese sandwiches, slices of roast chicken, servings of apples and grapes along with a jug of wine are laid out in front of them.

“What a spread you’ve come up with, Morgana,” Arthur notes and sits next to her on the ground. He can’t really taste the food now he’s dead but he knows when he’s full and when he’s hungry so he appreciates the spread because he’s pretty sure he’s hungry now.

“Are you complaining, I have your favourites, don’t I?” Morgana says and stuffs a sandwich in his mouth to shut him up.

“Children,” Uther says in his king voice.

“Oh, come on, Uther, loosen up. You’re not in council,” Morgana says. Uther looks like he wants to remark that but thinks better of it and just digs into his meal.

Arthur can vaguely remember the last time they did this, sat around a space like a family without guards and their servants. They must’ve been children, Arthur and Morgana, when they last did this. Gorlois was still alive then, it was before the battle, and it was one of the first times Arthur had spent any time with Morgana. They were children, though, and the restrictions of court and the courtesies that would later be demanded of them were only mere suggestions at that points, and it was so much easier to make friends then.

He looks over to Morgana, sipping the wine, and wonders if she remembers. Apparently Uther does, though, because his father then says, “I remember when the two of you were children and Gorlois and I took you to a picnic.”

“God, we were, what, four and six?” Morgana laughs.

“Around there, yes,” Uther says. “Gorlois and I couldn’t get a hold of you two, kept running about the forests and scaring the life out of us until we found you trying to climb that tree. For that whole day, the two of you were inseparable.”

“Are you getting soft in your old age, father? Already reminiscing about the old days?” Arthur asks.

“When you’re my age, you’re going to go through the same thing. When your children aren’t children anymore.”

 _Children_ , Arthur thinks, _that was one thing I never had, even then._

Arthur sighs and just looks at his father. He’s so soft around the edges now and Arthur’s almost scared. Uther was never this open and vulnerable until he was dying and Arthur hates thinking that. He was always strong and stern, demanding the best from every crevice of his kingdom, especially from his son. It almost makes Arthur wary of him now. Maybe it _is_ just him getting old and Arthur shouldn’t worry about it.

Morgana gets up from her seat and Arthur asks her where she’s going. “I’m going to pick flowers for Gwen, maybe Merlin, too,” she says. “They’d like that. Now, continue with your man talk, I’m sure it’s all dreadfully boring.”

“She grew up to be something, didn’t she?” Uther laughs as Morgana skips along through the trees.

“You should tell her,” Arthur says.

Uther’s eyebrows raise. “Tell her what?”

“That you’re her father.” He doesn’t know if this is a good idea or not but he’s selfish. He wants to call Morgana his sister out loud and make sure she’s taken care of.

“How did-?”

“The castle has ears, father, and I have eyes. You’ve always loved her something special”

“You really think I should tell her?” Uther asks. “She’ll be mad, undoubtedly.”

“A king is nothing if he cannot be honest, father. You taught me that..”

There’s such a vulnerability to them now, in this great kingdom of Uther’s making, and Arthur wants to scream from it. Moments like these came few and far between when he lived before and there was always an air of finality to them, as if they would be over in seconds. Arthur doesn’t know whether to be scared or relieved that it’s lasting for more than a few seconds.

“You’re going to be a great king, Arthur. I truly believe that.”

Arthur looks up to his father and sees the brief sincerity in his eyes before it’s washed away with the sternness that has been his coat of armour for decades. He wants to tell him just how ‘good’ a king he became without him, how he changed nothing and there were still innocent people being persecuted for being who they were when he died. He wants to beg him never to die because he’s not ready to be king again. _I’m going to ruin them_. “Father, I-”

“Don’t.”

 _Don’t have any doubts_ , Uther silently said.

And Arthur smiles to himself because he thinks, _he believes in me_.

“Look, flowers!” Morgana’s voice breaks through the gentleness of the moment. She puts a flower behind Arthur’s ear and, knowing even she can’t pull that one off, just kisses Uther on the cheek. “Had a good chat?”

“Oh, simply marvellous,” Arthur says, and it’s true.

They finish off their meal amidst conversations about their days and stories of their past and, by the time they’re ready to go, it’s almost late afternoon and they still have responsibilities. It was wonderful, though, just pretending they didn’t. His father gets up with a wobble and Morgana goes to help him to his horse.

“Too much wine, I think” Uther explains with a laugh.

By the time they get to the castle, though, his father’s stumbling and it takes two guards to help him to his chambers. Arthur’s instantly worried but Morgana takes his hand in hers and he remembers this is a different life. Gaius tells him his father is fine, simply down with a fever and he should be fine within a few days. So Arthur shakes it off and happily takes on his father’s responsibility for the next few days.

He tries not to think about how it eerily similar this feels to when his father was poisoned by the Mandrake root and started hallucinating, or the time Morgana’s betrayal had cut so deep that he was unable to be any kind of king, both times leaving Arthur to be king regent in his absence. He tries not to think about it because Morgana’s smiles are still sweet and Gaius is still assuring him that it’s still a fever and the king is even looking better from the looks of it. He just tries not think about most things that involve a scenario of his father dying.

In the midst of his father’s sickness, Arthur hasn’t been able to take Merlin _or_ Guinevere out, or even to just sort out his own feelings about them. He does, however, arrange to have Elyan be brought back to Camelot, if he so chooses, after Guinevere tells Arthur about him. It’ll not be suspicious that way, after all.

When he visits his father every night, Arthur asks him to tell him stories about what it was like when he won Camelot. Uther tells him about how heavy the armour was on his body and how much heavier it got with every man he killed; about this newborn kingdom that was his now, conquered by his wits, charm and blood. He tells him about Gorlois and all his other comrades. Arthur never asks about his mother, though, it’s been evident enough for years that he’ll never know more about her than how beautiful she was. Even then, she’s presented in muted colours because Arthur suspects his father quite selfishly wants to keep her to himself.

Things are good, Arthur thinks to himself. The slow pace of being prince and king regent again, he welcomes it. Things are good.  

One morning, though, just as he’s waking, three days after their picnic, Morgana comes in with tears in eyes and sadness wracking her body and Arthur just knows. He knows it before Morgana even tells him, as he’s holding her in his arms, as he looks across the room to lock eyes with Merlin; before the bells ring out and the candles are lit.

 _The king is dead. Long live the king_.

 

Here is the thing about loss: people don’t quite know what to do with you. They want to stay with you, to enclose you in a soft, warm space, with blanket forts and soft pillows and feed you grapes and make sure you’re safe. It’s to make you feel like your whole world isn’t crashing down. But they also want to leave you alone. They want you to be able to cry and not be embarrassed about it.

It’s still the same the second time around. Merlin looks oh so guilty and Guinevere looks like she wants to hug him every other second but hides in it biting her lips and fiddling with the fabric of her dress. Morgana’s eyes always ask the silent question of, “Are you okay?” and Leon, the sweet lad,, treats him no differently but also treads carefully like Arthur might turn to glass. He’s fine, though, or he will be, or he is expected to be.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, not when he’s been here before. This empty night has belonged to him once before. The cold air outside his window and the warmth of his hearth, along with his heavy feet that he can’t believe are fast normally and the bed that feels like stone. All of this was his before but it still hurts. Because he still feels the same, like he’s young, insecure and not ready for this. He doesn’t feel like he’s lived beyond his years, become king, done things he’d only dreamed of and died for them. He still feels like a man who just lost his father.

Loss doesn’t get better with time.

Arthur sits at the foot of his bed and just looks to his fireplace. He’s almost forgotten Merlin’s here until his manservant says, “You should sleep, Arthur. Tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow, I say goodbye to my father for the last time. There’s no use skating over it, Merlin.”

Merlin says nothing to this, only stokes the fire some more. There’s a space next to Arthur where Merlin can sit and Arthur desperately wants him to sit there next to him and tell him stories until he falls asleep. But that reality’s not his.

“I’m afraid to sleep, Merlin,” Arthur breathes out into the empty night. He thought this last time, too, but he never said anything about it. He just kept it in his fists, balled up until it became nothing more than dust.

“Why?”

“Because…because if I sleep, then this is real. My father’s death and everything that comes after. It becomes too real for me to bear at the moment.”

There’s a moment, right there, in the gap between them that makes Merlin look so old and weary. It makes Arthur think about Merlin in his own time. Almost two centuries now, Arthur’s still counting.

“You should sleep, Arthur,” Merlin says softly.

“Why?” Arthur asks adamantly.

Merlin slumps his shoulders and tugs the blanket from under Arthur. “Because you can’t do this to yourself and you know it.”

“I suppose I’ll always have you to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Arthur meets his eyes and he’s reminded of his death. Merlin was trying to be strong then, too, not knowing that Arthur could see the desperation and burning desire to carry Arthur to the lake himself. How did he miss it? All those years with Merlin by his side, did he not see the weariness that was becoming of Merlin, did he not see the desperation then, the thrumming of Merlin’s skin whenever his hand brushed against him because he was hiding a secret bigger than Camelot himself? Arthur was a fool, the utmost fool, and he didn’t know why Merlin put up with him. There was no true reason as to why he did. Did he believe in Arthur that much, until, in the end, he just became skin wrapped around his own bones and an ideal of Arthur’s? Until the blood running through Merlin’s veins only served to make sure Arthur was safe and content? Did he believe in Arthur so much that it ended up being the only belief he had left for centuries?

Arthur is the biggest fool.

The whispers of the kingdom are beginning to bleed into the walls of his chambers because Camelot is truly his once more and the weight on his shoulders has begun to feel like he was holding the world, so he can’t make amends of his foolishness just yet. There will be time, Arthur assures himself. He will build this kingdom from the ground up for Merlin. His father’s memory and ghost will not like it (because he took to Arthur’s marriage to Guinevere so well) but as much as his father won this kingdom, it’s now Arthur’s responsibility to see it through. He will not see the castle stand for morals that caused countless of innocent deaths, he will not let the ivory towers of the citadel bleed the kingdom’s blood, and he will not make laws that would see a man who lived for him, with his blue eyes and dark hair and pale skin and words that speak magic, die.

Merlin tucks him into bed without another word and he’s the last thing Arthur sees before he’s dead again.

 

It seems like the kingdom is in full swing. The whole morning, Arthur can feel entire eruptions of happiness coming from around him, as he spends the last few hours before his official coronation walking around the castle and its grounds. The whole kingdom, it seems, smells like a great feast, with pickled herrings and roast ham with a slight tint of grapes and all his favourite dishes in preparation for the feast after his coronation. The castle is adorned with floral wreaths spanning entire staircases and laurels decorating what seems to be every door and flat surface he’s seen; with the sounds of children giggling as they run past him in a fits of joy and bodies crashing against one another in the busyness of the day; with old and new friends as squires and knights from neighbouring kingdoms have come to see the new king’s coronation.

The royals have not arrived yet, the lords and ladies with their colourful attires and courtesies, but Arthur’s beginning to see the banners of different kingdoms. It seems like a children’s painting, with the different coloured banners of other kingdoms all splotched together in a background of the white and silver of the Camelot castle but, through it all, he can see the Pendragon colours flying high in the citadel. Red and gold are being brought up everywhere, in banners and flags, in ribbons as they’re wrapped around hands and hair, and in clothing. It makes Arthur’s heart swell, knowing this kingdom is his again.

People are so busy with their own matters that they hardly pay any attention to him as he walks past them and those who do just have time to bow quickly and resume their duties. Even Merlin has waved him off because he’s busy with the other servants, along with polishing Arthur’s armour and ceremonial sword. Arthur’s hardly seen Morgana today, just small glimpses of her encouraging smile before she’s back to scaring off the servants to making sure today is as beautiful as the day makes it. He has to admit, it is a gorgeous day, with the sun shining, but not too brightly until the kingdom starts smelling of sweat, and the wind brushing against his face. The gods seem to be treating his coronation auspiciously.

Arthur sees Guinevere helping a few serving girls with the decorations by the stairway and calls out to her. “Arthur.” She looks up and smiles at him, her skin almost glowing from the happiness. She leaves the serving girls be and walks by him. “How are you feeling? Nervous? Not to say that you have anything to be nervous about, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

He smiles at her as he makes a turn and goes into another corridor with a lot less people than in the main tower. “I don’t quite know what I’m feeling. I’m not sure if it’s nervousness or excitement. Though my father’s death does make today a little bit sadder, no matter how much festiveness people try to cram into one day.”

He said goodbye to his father yesterday, hours upon hours being alone with the ghost of his father in a big room that seemed to decrease in size by the minute. Arthur cried and told him he was going to take care of the kingdom in the best way he knew how, even if he didn’t agree with it. As the afternoon waned into the evening, Arthur found himself telling his father stories. Old stories that his wet nurse had told him, about gallant princes and beautiful princesses and the magic that had once ruled the land.

He found himself enraptured in telling his dead father stories that had been deemed unnecessary for a prince once he turned eight. He wondered if the stories Uther had heard when he was a child differed at all, if his father, too, had dreamed about lords and ladies and riding off into the sunset with a golden plates  of armour and an adventure on his mind. Arthur began to cry, then, thinking about how it was when he was a child and the freedom against his back, dreaming impossible dreams. Now, the thing he holds is the weight of an entire kingdom.

“Of course,” Gwen says. They turn from the corridors and down the stairs, into the courtyard outside. She’s dressed up for the occasion today. Her hair is down, swept aside, and her dress is a soft red with purple embroidery, probably one of Morgana’s old ones, judging from the wornness of it but she looks beautiful nonetheless.

“How’s Elyan adjusting to Camelot?” Arthur asks. It has been a few days since Gwen’s brother arrived in town and Arthur’s only seen him once or twice.

“Good. He likes working in father’s old armoury. It was wonderful for you to invite him to stay.”

“The kingdom needs more men like him, he’s a good swordsman. Ask him if he’d like to sit in for knights’ training sometime. Some of the lads might learn something from him.”

Gwen looks taken aback byhe offer. Knights are still only selected from among noblemen now, having a commoner amongst them would be controversy for the time being. “He’d, uh, he’d love that. Quite a bit, actually.”

“Good,” Arthur says. He brushes his hand against hers, not caring who sees. He doesn’t know how to do things yet, like sort out his feelings and Merlin and Gwen or start making this kingdom his, to make things better than they ever were in his first lifetime but he knows this. He knows he loves Guinevere, even with Merlin’s lips being ones he wants to kiss or the ghost of Lancelot haunting them, and simple and undeniable comfort is something she can give him. Gwen takes his hand in his for a moment and he feels like the best man on earth. “I want things to be better, Guinevere. For you and me and everyone else we know, I want things to change. I don’t know how but there will be a time where things will seem good.”

“I think admitting that things need to change is the start of it, Arthur. I don’t doubt you’ll do great things as king, I never have.”

There’s a tug on his breeches and Arthur looks down to see a steward’s daughter he recognizes by her flaming red hair. She has something in her hands and says, “Here,” and hands it to him. It’s a crown, made of branches and twigs and flowers, and the girl blushes when he thanks her before she goes off to join her friends. Gwen takes the crown from his hands and gently places it atop his head.  A crown from his own people.

He wears it for the next few hours, walking with Gwen and just talking with her like they used to do in his first lifetime; visiting his knights in the training ground, stumbling into a very busy Morgana who has time to kiss him on the cheek and tell him he looks pretty with the crown, until he’s forced to take it off and put it on his bedside table because it’s time to get ready. Merlin comes into his chambers as a bundle of nerves and Arthur can feel it all over him, as he’s undressing Arthur and preparing his bath and dressing him with his tunic and armour and scented oils.

This is not Arthur’s first time but it’s Merlin’s. Merlin knows how important this day is and what it entails, he won’t ruin it by being a smartass but Arthur needs him to be. Arthur needs Merlin to be Merlin. “You alright?” he asks his manservant.

“I’m not the one inheriting a kingdom here,” Merlin laughs shakily as he latches on Arthur’s hauberk.

“No, but you’re not any less important.”

Merlin looks taken aback. He’s not used to Arthur’s affections yet, or just in general. Arthur wasn’t this touchy-feely in his first lifetime. “I’m fine, really.” Merlin straightens himself up and puts on Arthur’s cape on him as a finishing touch. “I feel like this is the beginning of many great things.”

“Me, too.” Merlin looks at him with so much expectancy and hope that Arthur swears he could make a dozen kingdoms for this man because Merlin would do the same. “Things are going to change, Merlin, for all of us. But it’s going to take time, do you understand?”

“Arthur, what are you saying?”

“I’m just saying,” Arthur says, the air palpable around him and it seems like a perfect time for him to just lean in and kiss Merlin here and now. “I’m just saying, bear with me until that happens, alright?”

Merlin smiles that stupid, beautiful smile that Arthur has been collecting and says, “I’ll bear with you even after.” Arthur might be imagining it but it looks like Merlin wants to kiss him, too.

There’s a knock on the door and the two of them hastily return to a reality where king and manservant can’t kiss (at least not yet) and Morgana peeks her head through. She has hair down and curled, and she’s wearing a deep blue dress with silver details. Beautiful, his sister is.

“Ready?” she asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Arthur breathes out. Merlin makes sure Arthur’s properly attired and bids him and Morgana goodbye. Before Merlin leaves, though, he gives Arthur one last look and a wink and Arthur smiles to himself. Morgana takes her place next to Arthur, linking her arm around his and breathes in deeply.

She strokes his hair and cheek lovingly like he’s a precious puppy. “Dearest brother,” she says.

Arthur widens his eyes at her. “Uther told you then? Before?”

“How long have you known?”

“Not long,” Arthur lies through his teeth. He’s known for seven years and some change but who’s counting? “You’re not mad, are you?”

“No, I’m not mad.”

Arthur regains his composure and looks forward. “Good,” he says. “Because, as soon as I’m king, I’m officially naming you my heir apparent.”

Morgana looks like she’s going to slap him round the face or jump up and down like he’s gifted her a pony for a present. She’s happy, though, so that should mean something. Arthur knows what this means, it will mean that Morgana is first-in-line for the throne once Arthur becomes king. And he knows, he knows, that this might be a colossal mistake because maybe he hasn’t changed as much as he wants to change but she’s his sister and she knows it. Morgana’s happy and Arthur likes seeing her happy.

“You’re going to be a horrible king if you just spring up important decisions on people,” she says but kisses him on the cheek anyway.

“Oi, bite your tongue, I’ll be just great and you know it.”

She opens the door and looks back at him, silently agreeing with him.


	2. Chapter 2

_they all say_

_'i pity the one who left you'_

_and then they leave._

\- Warsan Shire

 

It’s different being king this time around. There’s no urgency of war and enemies around them, like there was in his first lifetime. His greatest enemy is now his second-in-command and she follows him when he goes to council meetings and he has to represent in court. Morgana acts as his heir apparent, as he once did for his father, and Crown Princess of Camelot. She hates being called princess, though, she says it sounds too flimsy and she associates it with the colour pink and the incorrect assumption that she’s a damsel in distress. So the people have taken to calling her ‘Your Grace’ instead, which she definitely lords over him.

The people of Camelot are still the same otherwise. Merlin treats him the same, he’s still a smartass and Arthur can count on him to serve up some banter in between boring court meetings, though Arthur’s starting to treat him a bit differently. It was ridiculous how, in his first lifetime, their relationship was built more on their jokes and their banter when he full well knew what was –and still is- in his heart and how Arthur loved him, too. Arthur blames his inability to actually keep relationships in his life for that but that doesn’t mean it’s forgivable. Death may not be a second chance for most people but it is for him. So he gently touches Merlin on his arm and shoulder whenever he can, doesn’t tell him he’s useless more than three times a week, and makes sure that Merlin knows Arthur loves him, too. Not by saying it aloud, though, because he’s still Arthur and his feelings are still a nuisance.

Gwen is still sweet and supportive but he tries not to lead her on because he’s realized that he can’t be that person for her anymore. Not when he has another chance. He thinks she knows that, too, on one level or another, because she’s always been smart.

Everyone’s still the same and the kingdom is as steady as it’s ever going to be for now, so why does Arthur feel like he’s drowning?

Every morning, he wakes up from Avalon and is convinced that he’s done something horribly wrong and he has to rectify it. He walks around the castle feeling like he’s a mistake, that he’s something that should be erased because no one would know differently if he was. At times, he feels too much and wants to burn the kingdom down for being his and, other times, he feels too little and can’t concentrate on important state matters because there’s a war going on inside his body. Sometimes he thinks this is the lake Avalon promised catching up to him and bringing him back to death permanently but most times he just blames it on himself.

This is his kingdom now, these are his people, just like they’ve been for years, but there’s been a steady stream of consciousness when he was king before. It was the same laws governed by his father and he just followed through but he wants to change them now. The steady stream is gone and he’s being battled by endless questions and conflicts inside his mind. He blames himself for not being ready enough to be another kind of king. Freya tells him that it’s not his fault, that the thought that he wants to change makes all the difference, and change takes time. He almost wants to yell at her for not understanding but that’s not fair and he’s angry all the time now.

It’s a good thing Morgana’s there. For the first few weeks of his rule, before he started becoming a natural disaster, she never did much during official meetings. She just sat next to him and leaned in her seat, silently watching as Arthur governed Camelot. It started to creep him out, mostly, as Morgana

turned from person to person around the table. From Lord Brom, who the children always thought was older than Camelot itself, and Lord Daryl, who’s a little older than Arthur with dark hair and tan skin, to Gaius, who has been a warm presence in council ever since Arthur was a boy.

That was all until she started talking in meetings and he realized that she’d been observing. She’d been teaching herself the tools of the trade of court and its tactics. She watched the lords and ladies, noting how they acted and what kind of decisions they made, writing all of them in her head so she’d remember. Slowly, she became Camelot’s greatest weapon. She became resourceful and cunning, charming to visiting nobles and smart during meetings. Arthur almost has to stand back and let Morgana rule sometimes. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea for a couple of days.

He passes Sir Kay and Sir Bedivere in the halls now, laughing and giggling like little children, and Arthur tells them off despite the fact that he’s taken part in their shenanigans more than once when he was prince. They’re not bad-looking, with Kay and his handsome face and easy smile and Bedivere with his dark skin and gallant behaviour, but they never seem to have their arms wrapped around anyone else but each other. They’re probably as heterosexual as they come, though, because Kay tells constant loud stories about his conquests in the brothel.

“Oh, stop being so uptight, Wart,” Kay says with a smile. He’s still the only one who gets away with calling Arthur Wart. Arthur doesn’t know why he doesn’t just have him flogged. “Just ‘cause you’re king now doesn’t mean you have to stop smiling. Isn’t that right, Beddy?”

Kay wraps an arm around Bedivere, who snarls at the nickname.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Arthur says.

The two of them bow to him and take their leave, making jokes about how Arthur’s head looks like a potato with hair from the back. Kay and Bedivere died early in his first lifetime, when the living skeletons attacked Camelot, and he’s forgotten that Kay’s nearly as bad as Gwaine sometimes. Arthur makes his way back to Morgana’s chambers and is allowed in within only one knock.

Morgana’s having her hair brushed by her new handmaiden, a fair young thing named Stephanie, but his sister waves her away when she sees him. “Dear brother, what can I do for you today?”

“I was wondering if you could take over my duties for the next few days,” Arthur says and smiles at Stephanie, who subsequently blushes, when she leaves.

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong as such, I just…need to get away for a while. I’d probably take Merlin and Guinevere with me, too, if you don’t mind.” Arthur sits down on her alcove by the window, watching the kingdom through glass.

“Of course I don’t mind. Gwen’s been my secondary handmaiden for months nowand I know she’d like to spend some time with you.” A few weeks ago, both of them decided that Gwen’s talents were wasted when she shirked away at her duties as a handmaiden. They decided to give her privileges not allowed to normal servants and would allow her to go anywhere she wanted in the castle and find out the true inner workings of Camelot. It was too early for Camelot to have a former servant in court so this was the best they could do for now. They offered the same deal to Merlin when Arthur became king but he refused.

“So you’re okay with managing the kingdom for a few days? I won’t be too far, a bird will reach me in a few hours at most if there’s anything of grave importance.”

“Darling brother, I know you’ve been having a rough time adjusting and I’ve noticed,” Morgana says with a smile. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I _have_ been managing the kingdom while you’ve been having a prolonged episode.”

“Thanks for that,” Arthur says, smiling weakly. He stands up and kisses her forehead as a form of goodbye. “I won’t be long. Don’t miss me too much.”

She kisses his cheek. “I hope this trip shrinks your ego.”

Arthur tells Gwen of their trip and how they’ll leave by late afternoon and she accepts wholeheartedly. He never did take her out on that picnic he promised her. She promises to let Merlin know and, by the time Arthur’s done with his duties for the day, he comes into his chamber with all his things already packed.

“Here,” Merlin says, throwing his pack to his face and, luckily, he catches.

“You’re not even going to ask where we’re going?” Arthur asked.

Merlin shrugs. “I figured this was a ‘if I tell you, you’ll die’ kind of situation. Come on, it’s almost time and Gwen said she’s meeting us with the horses outside the castle steps.”

They must look dodgy, the three of them as they ride off. The King of Camelot with two servants, riding off in the middle of the day while the kingdom is full swing. People will gossip, as they have for years, saying that the King is having an illicit affair with two servants, where they go into the deep forests of the lands and make love until the earth is part of skin. Arthur’s not totally objecting the idea but no one has to know that. Not with his mind, that often goes into dark corners and thinks about Merlin’s full lips speaking words of depravity.

Merlin and Gwen don’t know where they’re going but Arthur just says east. He doesn’t know why he said that but he just wants to ride and peel the stink of court and kingly matters off his skin until he smells like the trees instead. Ealdor’s east, though, if they needed a destination. He’s sure Hunith will welcome them.

They ride past the outer villages of the kingdom, Arthur waving his hand to the villagers who recognize him, and into the landscapes made of green hills and ruined towers from days of old. There’s a long lake as they race through the hills, laughing about how free they feel, a silver-blue ribbon snaking through the carved world outside their own. He’s sure he’s been here before. Arthur, Morgana, Kay and some of the other young squires took a swim in the lake when they were younger, daring each other to hold their breaths underwater until one of them almost drowned and the game wasn’t funny anymore. He wonders if he could dare Merlin to do that, if his magic could keep him alive underwater.

“We should make camp,” Merlin suggests. He’s They’ve been riding for hours without rest to no apparent destination. Arthur could ride for a couple more but he’s not the only one travelling.

He sees a clearing not too far ahead and sets up camp there. They make a small fire, so they can see what’s around them. They’re surrounded by trees in the outermost part of a forest, tall figures looming above them and Arthur feels like a kid again. He never quite liked haunting stories, fables of old designed to make children afraid of the dark, but Morgana always did. She forced him to listen whenever they were outside after hours.

“What’s that?” Merlin asks and, before Arthur can ask what he was talking about, he hears it, too. A rustling in the trees, the deep sounds of feet on the ground and, when he turned his head, a strange red light coming up from between the trees.

Arthur picks up his sword and Merlin does the same. He almost wants to tell Gwen to stay behind but she picks up a torch, walks past both of them and leads them into the trees without another word.

“Who’s there? This is King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot,” Arthur calls out and Merlin makes a disapproving sound.

“Sure, let the unknown figure _know_ you’re a king and you’re available for massive looting. Idiot,” he says. Arthur really wants to slap him round the face but Gwen sshes them.

There’s a small silhouette in front of them and Arthur’s ready to strike until the silhouette says, “Please, sire, I don’t want any harm, I just want to get back to my father.”

It’s a little girl, no older than twelve, with brown hair and a heart-shaped face already decorated with tears. She looks familiar to him and Arthur wants to tell her it’s alright but it’s only then he sees it. Her eyes are golden.

 

The night is cold around them, the wind coating them until they shivered, and Arthur removes his jacket to warm Gwen up as Merlin starts the fire. The girl sits across from them, separated by the hearth of the fire. She looks terrified, her eyes never reaching Arthur’s or Merlin’s but sometimes making contact with Gwen who smiles at her, and her arms wrap around herself, trying to keep herself warm.

Arthur hasn’t even passed a sentence yet but she looks so scared that she’s sure that he’s going to kill her come morning. He really doesn’t know what to do yet, because he’s with Merlin and Gwen, both of them expecting him to uphold Camelot’s laws even outside of the castle, but he’s also a dead man awakened who knows where the bulk of his mistakes came from. He owes it to Freya, at least. The girl kind of reminds him of her, too. Freya’s dark hair is lost on her but there’s an innocence to how she is and Arthur’s sure that her smile will small but warm whenever she does. She hasn’t introduced herself because she figures dead girls don’t have names.

“There’s nothing we can do now,” Arthur said to Merlin and Gwen, trying to calm and reassure them about the presence of a magic user.”It’s nighttime and we’re all alone. We’ll deal with her in the morning.”

Merlin and Gwen reluctantly prepare dinner and Arthur can smell the sweet scents of cinnamon and garlic over the legs of chicken they brought to be fried over the fire. The girl doesn’t expect a meal so she cowers away from them, away from the fire, and presses her legs against her chest. Has her kind been so instilled with the notion that Pendragons are evil that she doesn’t even need an example to think he’s already cruel? This saddens Arthur. She’s probably lost her mother to this fight against magic because she only mentioned a father before she fell into silence.

“Pile it on, Merlin, don’t be greedy,” he tells Merlin and Merlin snarls at him before he dumps two whole chicken legs onto Arthur’s piece of cloth they’re using as makeshift plates.

Arthur then takes out a napkin from his satchel and puts one piece of chicken from his plate, stands up and gives it to the girl. She looks at him expectantly, like she thought that there was a knife in that napkin but he kneels down so he’s at eye-level to her and smiles.

“What is your name?” he asks her.

“Sefa,” she answers, quiet and meek. That’s why she looked so familiar: she was Guinevere’s handmaiden in his first lifetime but she’s so young here; a child.

“Eat, Sefa. There’s something I want you to do for me after you do.”

The four of them ate dinner silently, with Arthur cautiously giving looks to Sefa to check up on her once in a while and Merlin and Gwen not quite knowing what to do with themselves. Was he not all that kind in his first lifetime that mercy is a surprise to them now? He hopes not. When they’re finished, Merlin throws the bones away and Sefa freezes up again. The colour has returned to her face but she still looks wary and scared.

“What do you want me to do, my lord?” she asks as Merlin sits down next to Arthur.

“Tell me of the Old Religion, tell me its history,” Arthur says. He can feel Merlin’s staring beside him but he ignores it.

“My lord, why do you want to know?” Sefa asks, surprised.

“Because I love stories but my father never let me hear this one.”

Sefa smiles then and, there it is, he knew that her smile would be a good one. It’s a soft and demure representation of happiness and he loves it. He never wants her to grow up from this smile, so she’ll stay innocent like this forever.

“The Old Religion isn’t a belief, sire. It’s as old as the land itself, it is magic itself, a force of nature or nature itself. My mother told me, in the times of the old, the trees used to whisper to the people and those willing to listen would be gifted with magic, simply by the words. We believe that the Old Religion is an animate force with a will of its own, speaking words of wisdom and magic to us in the calls of nature. This was how it was for years and years, the people learned magic and the teachings of the Old Religion from nature, until there came a time where three women descended from the skies, or so they said, to become our teachers. The legends said that these High Priestesses were taught by the Old Religion and were sent to become messengers of its teaching to us. They became our religious leaders, these three women, and taught us and enforced rules so magic would run its course freely.”

Gwen shuffled next to him and Arthur looks to her, seeing her eyes engrossed in the story. He smiles to himself.

“They gained many followers after that and not all of them magic because the teaching didn’t just enforce the use of magic but also good values and idealistic views. Children were given equal opportunities to become warlocks and witches and warriors but it seemed like the women were the ones more revered. They became our rulers and teachers more than the men did. Our main god that we were taught to pray to, too, was a goddess. The Triple Goddess, each symbolizing different stages of the female life cycle. The Maiden Huntress, The Mother Goddess and The Death Crone.

“But there were terrible stories, too, about how the High Priestesses would conjure horrible monsters and, on the eve of Samhain, sacrifice a living human to tear the veil between the living and the dead. Those were the ones the children of my village were scared of the most, because the stories said that, for one day, ghosts and spirits would roam the land and terrorize the living out of jealousy and spite. There are those who say that there were spirits of the old age that escaped and were never returned to the land of the dead and continue to haunt the lands.”

The wind rustled the trees, almost whispering tales of old spun by history, and Arthur could feel goosebumps rising on his skin, making him feel like a child again.

“What happened to the three High Priestesses?” Arthur found himself asking.

“They ruled the land for hundreds of years, until they died peacefully. Before that, though, it was said that they said that there would be nine Priestesses that would succeed them, their names written in fate, that they would be High Priestesses and guard the Old Religion. I’m sure you’ve heard of those, sire, The Nine, your father, he…captured some of them during The Great Purge.”

“Yes,” Arthur says grudgingly. Morgana, his sister, one of The Nine. Marked since birth, if the stories were true, and she was born to be what she became.

Sefa loses some of her enthusiasm after that, slowly finishing up her story because she’s remembered once again that she’s talking to a Pendragon and she isn’t safe. “The stories also said that there were others, marked by the Old Religion, men and women who were born with magic. The Druids even prophesized that one such creature of Old Religion would be the greatest sorcerer to walk the earth. We commonfolk don’t know their name, though, or if it’s even true. It might just be another story.”

Arthur sees Merlin flush next to him and bow his head. The greatest sorcerer to walk the earth and he turns out to be Arthur’s useless manservant. Arthur looks to Sefa now and sees her smile diminishing, the history of her beliefs whispered into the night and the remnants are mere stories and fables to be sung around children. He wonders if she has a favourite story.

When he was a child, his was of Pylos the Passionate, who was a lowborn that fought his way with nothing more than his sword and wits. It was said that he had metal armour chased with gold in its details that drew out a picture of a wolf. He soon found himself at the great castle of Essetir to fight in a tournament which he won soon after. There, he became a knight of King Mormont and fell in love with the great king’s daughter. When King Mormont decreed that none of his knights were to wed any of his daughters, Pylos shed his cloak and gave up his sword for her kiss. It wasn’t a story of triumph and victory, the ones Uther wanted him to like, it was a love story. Arthur seemed to like those the best.

Arthur asks Sefa asks her now, what her favourite story is and she blushes.

“I don’t think I should tell you, my lord,” she says.

“Do tell, Sefa,” Gwen says encouragingly. “We’re not children anymore and these stories are a way to be young again.”

“Have you heard the story of Alys and Sadon?” Sefa asks and Arthur and Gwen shake their heads. Merlin hasn’t said anything this entire night, ever since Sefa starting talking about the Old Religion and Arthur has to wonder why. Is he wondering why Arthur is treating a magic user with such kindness? Has he assumed wariness of this girl-child unto himself, since Arthur is refusing to?

Sefa leans forward to the fire, so the light catches her face and Arthur sees her excitement. “Some thirty years ago, four of The Nine were known and ruled the lands of magic. The other Priestesses either had not yet been born or were not old enough to know their powers. One of them was Lady Alys, she was known as the compassionate one. She rode on her horse, grey like the wind when it moved, and visited poor villages to wave her hands and make the crops grow so the villagers might see another summer. At her disposal, she had a dagger and she was taught the art of war but she never used it unless the situation was dire. She had long brown hair, tied up by branches of flowers, and lovely brown skin and it was said she was the most beautiful woman in all the lands. She was courted by many admirers, as were her sisters in magic, but she only had eyes for one.”

It’s a love story, Arthur realizes.

“The High Priestesses were, as you know, guarded by their Blood Guard, who were warrior priests sworn to protect the Priestesses and the teachings of the Old Religion. One of Alys’s Blood Guard was a young knight named Sadon. He wore a black mask, as was tradition of the Old Religion, but when he took it off, Alys could see that he was a blonde beauty. He was her protector and loved her just as fiercely as when he wielded his sword. Their happiness was cut short when The Great Purge came on the horizon. Her sisters were slain by Uther’s men and only one of sisters, Nimueh, who was a dear friend to Uther, managed to flee without Alys knowing what happened to her.

“Alys ruled the lands to the best of her ability but she was alone and her followers were getting killed. She fell into a deep depression that even Sadon couldn’t coax her out of. One day, however, Uther’s men came to her and offered a deal. She would bow and swear fealty to the king and, as a reward, her and her remaining Blood Guard would be permitted to stay in the kingdom so long as she did not disrupt Camelot’s peace. She agreed, of course, because she had never seen the point of war. She and her Blood Guard rode to Camelot to swear their fealty to Uther but, soon after, Alys was forced to watch as Uther slaughtered her Blood Guard and her love, Sadon. It was said that he yelled out her name until it was the last thing he ever said.

“Uther then told her that magic was outlawed and she was to be burnt at the stake for her crimes. Uther stabbed her before he started the fire but, when he did, white blood flowed from her veins, signifying her innocence of any wrongdoing. She died whispering Sadon’s name. People say that twin trees began to grow at the Isle of the Blessed that very day and those were the spirits of Alys and Sadon finally regaining their peace in the afterlife.”

Sefa smiles then, wide and unashamed, as most children do when telling their favourite story but she looks at Arthur and her face immediately drops. “Sire, I’m sorry, your father…”

“My father was the villain in this story,” Arthur says quickly. “It’s late, Gwen, make sure Sefa gets her rest. Tomorrow is going to a big day. We’re going to the nearest village and asking the people if they would help accompany Sefa back home to her father.”

“My Lord!” Sefa says at the same time Merlin says, quite sternly, “Arthur.”

Merlin hauls him up away from the girls and asks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m letting her go.”

“Magic users are a threat to Camelot,” he says. Arthur has to wonder then, is he just saying that because he’s been hiding under the shield Arthur now knows he has? Or has he been under Arthur’s skin for too long that he’s willing to easily betray his own kind for Arthur’s sake? The thought terrifies him because Merlin is a creature of the Old Religion. His people have been waiting for him and what would the prophets say, if they knew that Merlin would forsake his birth-rite in the name of his love for Arthur?

“She’s a child,” Merlin says as Gwen comes up next to him.

“She won’t always be.”

“So she grows up,” Gwen says, joining their conversation. “But she will remember what we did for her and we have her gratitude. Isn’t that better that the possibility of her father coming to Camelot to avenge her death? Children remember good deeds just as much as the horrible things done to them. Perhaps even more so.”

“I’m doing this, Merlin. I told you, before I became king, that things were going to change but it was going to take time. However, there are things that should be done now, like letting this girl go home to her father.”

Merlin’s eyes widen at that, his hands trembling as he begins to ask, “Do you mean to say…are you going to repeal the ban on magic?”

Even Gwen looks interested by the notion.

“It doesn’t matter if Alys and Sadon were mere stories, Merlin, they represented countless lovers that were ripped apart by my father’s war. People should be able to love whomever they choose and I’m not going to be one to stop that.”

He walks away to sleep then, keeping Merlin’s tremors of excitement as a victory when he returns to Avalon.

 

He smells apples when he wakes and Arthur’s momentarily frightened that he never woke up from his life in Avalon until he blinks his eyes open to see Gwen roasting apples and other fruits by the fire. Sefa sits by her and he can feel an entirely different energy from her than last night. She’s happier now, freer, and snacks on the fruits, giggling.. Arthur sees Merlin give her a smile until she blushes.

In the course of one night, Merlin’s grown a bit softer, his armour slowly becoming vulnerable again and it shows. He hums a song from his village as they eat breakfast and as he prepares their horses for their ride after that, until Sefa asks him to sing the words and he does. It turns out the song is known around the lowborns and Gwen chimes in for a few verses. Arthur doesn’t know it but makes a note to ask Merlin and Gwen to teach it to him when they return home. As they set off to ride, Arthur gives up his horse so Sefa could mount it and he would hold the reins as she rides. Gwen nods at Arthur, silently praising him.

They pass through the greenery, leaving behind vast expanses of open fields and lush clearings, the haunting voices of the forest and woods, with a comfortable silence draped over all of them. Once in a while, Sefa would point out something and ask what it is because she’s child, or Merlin would turn back to Arthur and smile at him and Arthur would have to stop his heart from beating out of his chest. The day is closing in on afternoon when they finally find the nearest village.

It’s a quaint place, with a cluster of small houses and villagers dressed in worn plainclothes, the whole place smelling of harvest and summer. It reminds Arthur of Ealdor and he wonders how long it’s been since Merlin’s been back home with his mother. He should make a point to give Merlin the day off he so deserves when they get back home. It’ll give him a chance to go back to his mother and get away from Arthur for a while.

When they enter the village, Arthur immediately seeks a rider to bring Sefa out. The nearest one with a horse is a boy, maybe a few years older than Sefa, with brown hair and a timid, shy face. He’s brushing down his horse, a handsome creature of brown. “Boy,” Arthur says to him.

“Yes?” he says timidly.

“Is this your horse? Can you ride it?”

“It’s my family’s, sir, but I can ride it just fine.”

“Good, I need you to go a day’s ride to this young girl’s village to bring her home to her father, can you do that?” Arthur asks and the boy nods. “Now, I don’t expect you to do this for free, so here is your reward, share it among yourselves and the girl’s father, I trust you to be just with it.”

The boy looks into the pouch Arthur hands him and nearly faints. Sefa laughs at him and Arthur can practically see that they’re going to be good friends during the ride. “What’s your name?” Arthur asks the boy.

“Daegal, sir.”

“Daegal, this is Sefa, and I am King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, with my comrades Merlin and Guinevere.”

“King Arthur!” Daegal says, dropping to his knees in an awkward bow. “My lord, sire, you’re too kind. I’ll carry out your bidding.”

Daegal prepares his horse and Sefa turns back to the three of them, twiddling her thumbs. Gwen gives her a hug goodbye and Merlin pats her on the shoulder and wishes her good luck on her journeys. “Thank you, my lords and lady, for the pardon, I know Camelot’s laws,” she says.

“There is time yet to make new laws, Sefa,” Arthur says and she smiles her sweet smile.

Her goodbye to Arthur is said merely through a small smile and a handshake before she goes and he expects no more. As Sefa saddles up with Daegal on his horse, however, she bids one more goodbye, a blessing almost, by saying, “Long live the king.”

Gwen grips him on the arm and he welcomes the reassuring gesture. That’s one thing done and he feels freer for it. Letting Sefa go was the right thing to do, but he still feels like drowning. Sooner or later, the blues and greens and silvers of the ocean are going to catch up with him unless he sorts everything out. He feels a constant ache in his chest because he’s dreamed of this point of his second lifetime for a while, when he would turn things around and make things better for Merlin and everyone he’s ever loved. But it’s here and he doesn’t quite know how to go about it. How does one change a kingdom?

Arthur suggests to Merlin and Gwen that they take rest at the local tavern and let their horses rest outside. The tavern’s in a lull, almost quiet save for some talks over meals and the clattering and chinks of plates and cups, so they seat themselves at one of the tables. They order their food and eat in silence that is, until, the table next to them suddenly bursts into song because one of the lads are getting married. They spill their mead everywhere and laughter tumbles out of their mouths.

They ask Merlin to sing a couple of bars of the song, a famous song about a beautiful maiden in a towered castle, but he just blushes. Arthur joins in, though, and sends the groom-to-be his congratulations. The lads have enough guts to pick a laughing Gwen up from her seat and hoist her up in their arms until Arthur carries her back to her seat, her body still in a giggling fit. It’s good to laugh like this, he realizes, to have no one know he’s king once in a while.

“ _The fair maiden, aye, the fair maiden! She was the fairest of all to me_ …” The men sing until the tavern lady pushed them out the door.

With the laughter still fresh on their faces, Gwen kisses Arthur on the cheek, drunk on happiness. “You did a good thing, Arthur,” she says.

“It was the right thing to do.” Arthur shrugs.

“Your father wouldn’t have done it,” Merlin points out and takes in another sip of his mead.

“Maybe my father was wrong,” Arthur says, knowing the utter graveness of that statement and he can practically feel the laughter washing away from their surroundings.

He’s been wanting to change this kingdom for months, almost a year now, not quite realizing that this kingdom was his father’s first. This kingdom, the castle and its citadel had once been stained with the men he sacrificed for his war and conquering. Arthur had not realized that to rebuild Camelot from the ground up, he had to forsake the things his father had taught him to be, to love the things he was taught to hate with a white-hot passion as Uther once had. The blood that would stain the castle walls now would be Arthur’s, his men’s, no longer marching under Uther’s orders. Uther had beena good king, but he was also a man overcome with rage that no reason could pierce through that armour of anger.

Arthur would not forget that Uther was still his father no matter, would not forget some of the lessons taught to him that became invaluable but there would be things he would forget. He would stuff them under his bed and pretend they were monsters. Monsters aren’t real, after all.

“Tell me the truth, Merlin,” Arthur says now. “When Morgause showed me my mother, was she lying?”

Arthur carried this question all throughout his first lifetime, it silently weighing at the back of his head and mind as he ruled. The image of his mother, blonde and beautiful, warm and kind, haunting him in his dreams until he questioned his very existence.

Merlin looks torn now, his eyes never leaving Arthur but also never looking him straight in the eyes. “No. She wasn’t lying.”

“Shit.”

His head is spinning and his hands are shaking. He sees the people in the tavern starting to look at him strangely, making his breath hitched and shallow, so he gets up from his seat, almost stumbling, and goes out the door. The fresh air does nothing to calm his nerves or make his hands stop shaking or make him forget his mother’s face –because that was her face, her real face, his real mother and she was so beautiful. He doesn’t know when he started crying but he must’ve because Gwen starts wiping the tears of his face with a piece of cloth as he continues shaking. He doesn’t know why he’s shaking, maybe from anger or from nervousness or realization that everything his father did was based on hypocrisy, but he’s shaking and he can’t quite stop.

Even when he stands, there’s a constant motion in his head as he walks around the clearing. Arthur can barely place the exact position of Merlin but feels his presence and has enough reason to try to calm down.

“My father told me,” Arthur says, almost calm now, soft and steady waves in his ocean, “that Camelot was built on honesty, trust and loyalty.”

“It still is,” Gwen says. Oh, sweet girl, innocent girl, Arthur thinks.

“No, it wasn’t,” Arthur yells out, rage pouring through the tips of his fingers and out of his mouth. “It was built on a lie, on _genocide_ and dishonesty and selfishness. That was what Uther was made of, until the Great Purge didn’t only destroy hundreds of innocent lives but it also destroyed him. I saw him through rose-tinted glasses and a boy’s naiveté but that ends now. My father was a decent man but he wasn’t a good king.”

Merlin reaches out to touch Arthur and, for once, Arthur doesn’t welcome the touch. “Arthur,” he says, all soft and gentle on his tongue. Arthur wants to wake up to how Merlin says his name every morning.

He was his father’s shadow, following his orders and killing his people, until the only title that mattered to him was the one passed down to him, the one his father owned as well. Pendragon. A child born under the crest of a creature he was sworn to kill. This is what he has to do, he realizes. He needs to stop being his father. Merlin didn’t fall in love with how he was alike to his father, btu how he was different.

“I am no longer a boy,” Arthur says with as much conviction as there is anxiety in his body, “and Camelot is no longer my father’s kingdom.”

By now, he’s stopped shaking and he can see Merlin and Gwen without the world seeming like it’s tumbling over. They smile at him now, proud and happy, and he brings himself to do the same. He must look a fool, smiling like this, but he’s proud of himself, too.

Right then, he hears the loud flaps of wings coming toward them and, above them, Arthur sees a bird bearing news. It rests on a branch of the nearest tree and the note is waxed with the crest of Pendragon.

“What is it?” Merlin asks as Arthur reads the note written in Sir Leon’s gentle handwriting.

“We need to ride back to Camelot, now,” Arthur says but his voice isn’t as broken as he would’ve thought. Maybe he had expected this, told himself this life was too good to be true and all of Morgana’s smiles were bloody, after all. “Morgana’s been suspected of my father’s death and has fled from the citadel.”

They ride at full speed, with urgency and haste, and the three of them don’t talk unless it’s unnecessary. It’s funny, how flimsy happiness and hope can actually be. How it can only last for a few seconds before dark omens fall down on all of them. The turning point of how he’s beginning to change his kingdom and all he’ll remember of this day is how nothing has changed at all.

Leon’s note was concise and told nothing more than what he needed to know so he spends most of the ride thinking about how it happened, if it was forced or it was a lie. These thoughts plague his thoughts so much that he barely realizes that they have left the greenery and open fields behind and into the white expanse of Camelot’s castle. Leon is there to greet them, as well as Elyan who helps Gwen down from her horse. Elyan’s been a good chap these past few weeks, since he became king, always helping and always willing to seek Arthur’s counsel. Though he doesn’t wear the silver chainmail of a knight of Camelot, Arthur makes a point for that to change.

“What happened?” Arthur immediately asks Leon once he’s unhorsed.

Leon sighs deeply, his expression betraying just how hurt he is, too. Leon’s been a friend to Camelot for all his life, has loved Morgana from afar for most of that time and his lying isn’t as tough as his armour. He explains quickly to Arthur, Merlin and Gwen as they walk through the castle. The gist of it is that Morgana was spotted with Morgause outside of the castle, leading the knights to be suspicious. They had more than enough reason to search her chambers and found the poison that killed Uther.

“How do we know that it’s poison? Gaius said my father died of natural causes,” Arthur points out, still hopeful.

“We were sure it was, sire. Though the poison told us otherwise. It’s a rare potion made of a deadly flower only found in Essetir.”

“Cenred’s kingdom,” Merlin says.

“Exactly. It turns out that this poison is used to render the victim ill for a few days until it looks like they’ve died from natural causes.”

“Like my father,” Arthur says. “And Morgana, where is she now? You said she fled from the citadel.”

“We have men looking for her all over but we can’t do much when we reach the border into Cenred’s kingdom. It’ll be an act of war, sire,” Leon says. “My Lord…if we find her, what do you want us to do?”

Arthur can feel all of their stares on him, burning hot against his skin. How weak hope can be, and how persistent anger is, to come bubbling up again without a moment’s notice. He had been hurt enough today, the truths of things he couldn’t change were coming back to him in a frightful way and he could no longer afford to be kind. Not today, when evening had fallen and night was coming to claim them all; not this lifetime, where he knows how Morgana is and exactly what she is capable of.

“Banish her, exile her, and let her know that her return to Camelot will be welcomed with death. If she sparks a war against us, then there’ll be no choice than to shed blood,” Arthur says gravely. “Now leave me.”

Leon and Elyan bow to him but Merlin and Gwen follow him into his chambers. Stupid, stubborn idiots.

“Arthur, you need to think about this,” Gwen says. “All those lovely things you said, you can’t let them go to waste on Morgana.”

“Morgana is a traitor to the crown, Guinevere. If she’s willing to kill her own father, who’s to say she won’t kill me, too? What would you have me do otherwise?” Arthur sits down on his bed, hands cradling his head.

“Find her yourself,” Merlin suggests. “She’ll listen to you. You don’t know what she’s going to do now. All those things you said, Arthur, she needs to listen to them, maybe she’ll change her mind-”

“Do you think I _want_ to do this?” Arthur yells. “Morgana’s my sister, I love her, but I know how she is. She won’t change her mind, not about this. And that hurts more than I can say.”

“Arthur.” He can’t quite tell who said his name then, his body is too wracked with sadness and anger to differentiate anymore.

“I named her my heir, don’t you understand what that means? It won’t matter that she’s Uther’s bastard daughter or Uther didn’t claim her as his own because _I_ did. If she kills me, she won’t have to _conquer_ anything. The throne will _rightfully_ belong to her. Now, thank you for what was a good journey and for your council but I’ve had enough for tonight so please. Leave me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response and just lies down on his bed. It’s soft here. Despite that, however, Arthur only stays in Avalon for a few hours before he wakes up. Sweat clings to his tunic and the taste of Morgana’s name has turned bitter in his mouth.

 

The castle is asleep but Arthur can feel every nerve in his body wracking with decisions to be made, people to order and the sister who hadn’t changed one bit. Was there no way to find a life or a world where she would not betray him? Would there be a small, prosperous life where burdens of kingdoms and magic and the complications therein did not weigh on their shoulders and they were free to see each other every morning over breakfast, talking news of the world? He wishes there would be, someday, after his death and after hers, where he would come back and he could forgive her.

But it isn’t this life, where Arthur wears a red cloak and Morgana black, the colours betraying the sides of the war they swear allegiance to. It isn’t this life, where he owns a kingdom and Morgana a secret, where the wounds of betrayal are fresh against his skin. If Morgana were to come back or if the knights were to capture her, the anger in his veins meant he wouldn’t be as kind to her as he once was. Seeing her face would not make him want to come and hug her, embrace her like the family he thought she was.

Morgana,, his sister, his downfall, in the end.

“Is it true?” a voice interrupts his quiet thoughts in the council chamber.

“Morgana,” he says, turning around and seeing her face. His hand immediately takes it place on his sword, ready to aim for her. She’s not really there though, the colours of her being are muted like she’s a ghost. Like she’s like him. Magic, he tells himself, she is capable of this now, of this and so much more that he doesn’t know about.

“Is what they’re saying true, Arthur?” she asks. “You would exile me?”

“Yes, I would.”

She steps forward. “Arthur, why?”

“Why?” he yells out, his anger getting the best of him, making him feel alive in the worst way. He instinctively swings out his sword but when it hits her, it only passes through. “You killed our father! You killed our king, that’s a crime punishable by death. Exile is mercy.”

“To leave my friends and family behind, to leave _you_ behind, that would be _mercy_?”

“What did you expect, Morgana? You killed Father, did you think there wouldn’t be a consequence to those actions?”

“I did what I had to do to put you on the throne.”

Arthur gives a small laugh. “Me? Or you?”

“Uther was a cruel man, a tyrant, a dictator, you knew that as well as I did that the people of Camelot never truly prospered when he ruled. You weren’t like him and I knew, I knew the best chance I had lied with you. I let you live.” Morgana is pacing now, all around him and he can almost feel her. “When Morgause and Cenred told me they wanted to overthrow Camelot, to bring magic back to the land, I knew Uther would never stand for it while he lived but you were different, I told them. There would be a time where things would be different and you would let me stand by your side, watching things change around us. I let you live because I believed in you.”

“You would lie? In a time like this, you would lie?”

“I’m not lying! Have I given you any reason to think I am?”

“Plenty.”

There’s a silence around them, a blanket of pause that lies shrouded on them and Arthur wants to regret his words but he’s been here before. Cold hearts would not warm to him, just because his own heart was a brother. Too much has happened and too many have died- including him- because of her lies and he would not let it happen again.

“This exile, brother, is it from the law or you?”

“Both,” he answers. “It was a crime what you did, Morgana, killing the king but I cannot stand to look on you every day in court, knowing you did something unspeakable, no matter the reason why. I can’t look at you the same way again, not after what happened. I can’t live like that and I certainly can’t let my people live like that, with a known traitor in our midst.”

“I believed you were not like your father, Arthur, that’s why I stayed but I see now I was wrong. You’re not very different.”

It shouldn’t hurt, that comment, but it does. Morgana truly hates him now, all over again, it’s seething from her mouth until he can feel it touch his skin. She’s lying, he knows, she would do anything to have this kingdom be hers and to see everything he loves in this world stolen from him. Comparing him to his father is just another stab in the back, a steady knife ripping through his flesh so he knows how horrible he is to her.

“I truly wanted to protect you, Morgana, I wanted everything to be different,” he says. There is no way out anymore. She’s spent a year with Morgause and Cenred, understands the evils in this world and believes him to be one of them. He had foolishly believed that she had really come back to him in this life but life wasn’t fair. She’s damn cruel and he was a fool to play around with her.

“And it will be,” Morgana says. She almost looks disappointed, sad. “You will see me again, brother, but I don’t think you’ll enjoy it. You should remember that you deserve everything that’s coming for you.”

She’s gone before he can even regret anything else.

Arthur drops to his knees, alone in the throne room. He wants to yell out for help, scream for Merlin and for him to wrap his arms around him and tell him everything will be alright. It will all be lies, those soft murmurs made against his skin to make him stop crying but it will be enough, for a moment or two, to make him forget that this is the day his kingdom has started falling apart.

But he can’t because he is king and crying is selfish. He finds strength to stand up again, wipe his tears against his sleeve and march off to his chambers to think of battle strategies.

 

When he wakes the next morning, his face is stuck to a piece of paper and he’s fallen asleep on his table again. Arthur looks up and sees Merlin tidying up his sheets even though he hasn’t slept in them yesterday.

“Merlin,” he says in as steady a voice as he can manage, all the while trying to remain dignified with a piece of paper stuck to his cheek.

“Arthur,” Merlin imitates the same deep tone.

“It’s mid-morning and you didn’t think to wake me?”

“I tried, you nearly chopped my head off,” Merlin says.

“It wouldn’t have been a bad decision to do it, the kingdom would be a lot less noisy, to be quite honest.”

Merlin shrugs and sits on the chair next to him. “You’d miss me,” he says. It must bring Merlin great satisfaction to know that that’s true. “Now I know you didn’t go to sleep when Gwen and I left you, that much shows. You shouldn’t, you know, you rule a kingdom now and a king needs his rest.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, Merlin,” Arthur says. He groans, leaning one side of his face on his hand. He’s still so tired, he barely got any sleep last night between reading on Camelot’s defenses and having nightmares about how Morgana’s skin would grow bloody.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?” Merlin asks.

“It’s Morgana,” he answers. “It’s…it’s going to get very bad very fast, Merlin.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Merlin asks because he doesn’t know the extent of what’s going on. Arthur quite likes it that way. Merlin knew everything in his first lifetime, how Morgana and, later, Agravaine were traitors, and tried to shield Arthur from it whenever it came to that. Arthur likes being able to protect Merlin this time around. Somewhere, in another time, centuries after this moment, Merlin is old and weary and waiting. Arthur’s seen that Merlin, too, when he’s back in Avalon, but this Merlin is different. This Merlin is young.

Arthur smiles weakly at him and says, “Yes, you can tell Sir Leon to gather up the knights and councilmen and convene around the round table in an hour.”

“Okay, I can do that. Let me draw you a bath first.”

“Merlin, there are more pressing matters than me getting a bath.”

“No, there isn’t, not with how you smell, sire.”

“Oh yeah? How do I smell, Merlin?”

“Like a right royal twat.”

Arthur manages to throw a piece of silverware to him before he’s out the door so he considers that a small victory.

Sir Leon looks worried at the emergency meeting, as he should be but Arthur tries to calm him anyway, with a smile before he’s seated.

“Sire, what is this pressing matter you wish us to attend to?” Leon asks and Arthur straps in for this.

“It’s the Lady Morgana,” he says slowly. He tries not to look at Leon when he says this because he knew, when they were children, Leon shared some affections with her and those feelings never go away, no matter how old you get. “She’s planning to attack Camelot with Morgause and Cenred by her side.”

There’s a collective gasp around the table and even from Merlin, who’s standing behind him. People murmur amongst themselves, probably wondering how this could’ve happened. _Lady Morgana was a sweet child, how could she do this to us,_ why _would she?_

“Sire-”

“I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I know she means to attack us and we need to be ready for it.”

The people around the table are silent in thought. There hasn’t been a big attack on the kingdom in years. That was, at least, one thing his father got right. People were far too intimidated by him to make a declaration of war against him. How is he going to handle this? This is going to be his first real test as king and he already feels his bones cracking from the weight of it.

“Your Highness,” Sir Kay speaks up. “How do you propose we plan for her attack?”

Arthur breathes in deep and, with one look at Merlin, he breathes out. “Double the patrols, tell the people of the citadel and lower town that they need to be ready to leave at any moment’s notice and I will talk with neighboring kingdoms to ask for their help in housing our people while we are under attack. We cannot let them suffer for whatever vendetta Morgana has for me. Send your strongest and smartest men to the Druids to retrieve the Cup of Life and to protect it with their lives or we’re doomed. We will have to discuss about the strongholds of the citadel, to see where we will be the weakest and strongest. There is much we have to discuss, in fact, but we have to start from there. It’s going to be a long day, men.”

Everyone around him nods and he can feel the slight pressure of one of Merlin’s fingers reaching for his shoulder.

“We need some men,” Arthur says, remembering.

“We’ll work on making our guard bigger, sire,” one of the councilmen say.

“No, it’s not that. We need certain men,” Arthur says. “I need a patrol looking for Lancelot and Gwaine and their bravest friends. I’m sure my manservant, Merlin, will be able to locate them through correspondence and it’s the patrol’s duty to find them and tell them that King Arthur needs their help.”

“Needs their help?” one of the councilmen say. Lord Brom, old and wise, trusted in his father’s day. “Sire, do you really require assistance from traitors and liars and gods know who else?”

“We will surely face certain defeat without them,” Arthur says steadily, staring him down. And, plus, he misses them desperately. He thinks not to say Percival’s name because how would it look to have a king request assistance from someone he’s never met? He just hopes Lancelot will repeat his actions and bring him along. “Please, gentlemen, discuss among yourselves, I need to be excused for a moment or two.” They all nod courteously and Merlin follows him out.

“Arthur,” Merlin says quietly when the door is shut behind him. “Why didn’t you tell me how bad this all was?”

“Believe it or not, it’s not my duty to report everything to my manservant,” Arthur says, walking away from him. He desperately wants to, though, wants to tell Merlin everything and set free the truths lodged in his dead bones. He wants, also, to pin Merlin against the wall and kiss him senseless so he can taste him for days; strip away their clothing before they fall into bed and Arthur can map out all his favorite parts of Merlin’s body (everything) and forget about the war. Arthur wants a lot of things but that doesn’t mean he can have them.

“Hey,” Merlin stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He looks him straight in his eyes and asks, “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad, if past experiences have any say in it,” Arthur says. “I know Morgana, I know how passionate she can be and how that can turn into white hot anger against me in a flash. I don’t know what to do. I’ve barely been king and my first real decision will be an act of violence, an act of war?”

“Everyone knows what Morgana did, Arthur, everyone knows she’s a traitor to the crown. Your actions and whatever comes next will be justified.”

“I wanted to…I…”

“What, Arthur? What did you want to do?”

Arthur wants to cry all over again. “I wanted to save her.”

 

He doesn’t let himself cry in front of Merlin or any of his men that day but, when he falls asleep that night, he lets himself sob into Freya’s lap. She strokes his hair and lovingly sings into his ear like a mother would and she just lets him cry. He must’ve been a child the last time he cried this hard, before his father scolded him off, telling him princes don’t cry and kings definitely don’t. He had spent years upon years training himself to be a master of his emotions when people were around until he had his guard up even when he was alone.

“I guess she never stopped loving me this time,” Arthur finds himself saying.

“Arthur?” Freya asks.

There are too many colours in Freya’s treehouse, all mismatched and blotched together like they don’t belong. There are too many things in his current life that don’t belong like the names Arthur and Morgana associated with the word peace, or him, for that matter. He doesn’t belong in his current life. He died, didn’t he? People don’t get second chances like this and if they do, they don’t screw it up like this.

“She killed him in the kindest way she could. So I could say goodbye.”

 

Days pass and the kingdom is getting antsy. The main problem with starting over is that some things are definitely different and he doesn’t know how to deal with that. Last time, Morgana had used the Cup of Life but the knights of Camelot managed to find the Druids before the Cup was taken by Cenred so it’s safe in Camelot’s vaults with the promise of returning it to the Druids after the time of war. Now, Morgana’s biggest plan has been taken, does that mean the kingdom is safe for now? Or does it mean something even more dastardly is being planned?

He dreads to think of it either way because the kingdom cannot stay in this state of anxiety for long and the citadel isn’t prepared for anything more than Arthur had expected. Perhaps Morgana is waiting them out, starving them of their courage and willingness to fight so that she’ll be at her strongest. Regardless of whatever is going to happen, Arthur keeps his guard up and Merlin notices.

“You’re making me nervous just by being in your presence,” Merlin complains.

“You’re in my presence _constantly_ ,” Arthur says.

“Exactly. Like my life wasn’t hard enough already.”

“I fear we both need some way to relax, at least for a bit.”

“Hmm,” Merlin says absent-mindedly.

He doesn’t know what Arthur is thinking and how he thinks it’s wrong. All these months being back, it’s teaching him constant restrain from wanting to kiss Merlin’s lips and say soft, loving words into his skin like,   _Thank you_ and, _I would’ve died for you, too_ and   _,I am so, so, desperately sorr_ y because it’ll be like taking advantage of Merlin’s selflessness and willingness to save Arthur’s life again and again.

Yes, of course, Merlin loves him and would do anything for him but that doesn’t mean he would want him in _that_ way. Merlin wouldn’t refuse, no, he knows Merlin and now he knows the lengths he will go to just to see a smile on Arthur’s face and if Arthur would ask, he would do anything. Asking him to please suck his cock seems to be a violation of their trust, even if his balls are blue already. It’s not like Arthur’s never thought about it, when Merlin bends over to pick up something he so stupidly dropped or when his tongue darts out at him playfully. He’s thought about kissing him hard and fucking some sense into him; thought of waking up next to him every morning when he’s still pliant and warm with the early sun; of holding his hand inside the castle walls and kissing him whenever he so felt like it. He’s thought about spending his life with Merlin and Merlin alone long before he lost it.

But there was always Camelot, and his father and his expectations. There was no time to think about a life with Merlin. It wasn’t proper. When he fell in love with Guinevere, that wasn’t proper, either, and though she had been good and just and a perfect queen for him, there wasn’t this desperation he felt to run away with her and live a peaceful life with her, in between making love and slow morning kisses. He still adores her quite stupidly but Merlin gives him a white-hot fire that burns him through and through until he’s quite sure he’s never really belonged to another. He and Guinevere never did feel much like husband and wife after they became king and queen.

Merlin drinks a sip of Arthur’s water and licks his lips. Arthur almost wants to groan out, already imagining what Merlin’s full, pink lips would look like wrapped around his cock, if that mouth would open in a gasp as his head was thrown back as Arthur fucked him into the mattress, if they would spew out filthy, obscene things, urging his cock deeper and harder into him.

Arthur’s already getting hard, fuck.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks and Arthur imagines how he must look right now. His eyes dark with lust, his breathing labored and his mouth slightly open. Merlin looks down his groin and immediately blushes. Right then, he’s sure his heart has never _not_ belonged to this man.

“I desperately want to kiss you, Merlin,” Arthur confesses. He really doesn’t have a grip on his restraint, does he? His world is falling apart but all he cares about is the world in Merlin’s body.

“Gods, yes,” Merlin breathes out and Arthur’s breath gets knocked out of his chest. All this time, they’ve yearned for this and Arthur feels suddenly deprived, hurricanes rocking inside of his chest, the very shift of the ground beneath them, to know that he could’ve been kissing Merlin all this time. In this life and the one before.

Arthur closes in the space between him and presses his lips, hard, against Merlin’s and Merlin positively melts. He tastes like strawberries and magic, it’s making Arthur drunk chasing after it. After that, it’s just a mess. Merlin moans against him and Arthur wants to take the noise until it fades into the background, muted by loud groans and the sound of skin against skin. There’s Merlin’s hand in his hair, tousling it and tugging on it and Arthur brings him in, pulling him flush against him. He wraps his arms around Merlin’s waist and carries him to the table.

There’s such a wonderful hunger to kissing Merlin, as if he drinking it in in big gulps but he’s still thirsty; he’ll always be yearning for Merlin, forever. Merlin makes his ears ring with his moans and whimpers and he can’t get enough of it.

Merlin licks his bottom lip as his legs wrap around his waist and Arthur can feel his arousal against him. “My king,” Merlin says between peppering kisses along his jawline and neck.

“ _Yours_ ,” Arthur replies and he doesn’t understand the heaviness of that word until he says it. He doesn’t take it back, though. He’s Merlin’s and Merlin’s his, that’s it, until the end of all of their lives.

There’s insistent knocking on the door and Arthur groans, pulling his lips from Merlin’s –earning a whine from Merlin. “What?” he asks loudly as Merlin’s hands snake up his shirt, cold hands against the warm skin.

“Sire, the patrol has found Lancelot and his companion,” the guard says.

“Wonderful,” Arthur says. Merlin begins sucking a bruise on his neck and Arthur really, _really_ wants to get naked right now. “Lead them to the guest chambers and make sure every one of their needs are met.”

“Sire,” the guard’s tone is dire now. “They have been injured.”

“What?” Arthur stops in his tracks but Merlin keeps sucking on his neck, licking the newly-formed bruise with his tongue and almost making Arthur lose his name.

“By the Lady Morgana, they say.”

Arthur and Merlin share an anxious look and Merlin hops off the table and makes sure both of them are presentable. “Later, then, love,” Arthur says and gives the corner of Merlin’s mouth a kiss.

The guards lead them to the throne room where not only Lancelot is waiting for them but also Percival and Gwen. She is talking to Lancelot and there’s an old monster in his chest that would’ve leapt out to claw at Lancelot if Merlin weren’t standing next to him, his lips raw from tasting Arthur’s kisses, so instead it purrs quite innocently inside him. There aren’t many things he has learnt to fix in this new life but he can fix this.

“My Lord,” Lancelot greets and bows his head.

“No need for that, old friend,” Arthur says and pats him on his shoulder. “I’m glad my men found you before the battle came to us.”

“I’m glad you wanted my assistance,” Lancelot says. “If you don’t mind, my Lord, I brought a friend to join the fight. You mentioned you needed all the men you could get and Percival is one of the strongest men I know, your force can only get better with him by your side.”

Percival steps forward and shakes his hand. “Your Highness,” he says.

“Please, call me Arthur. Both of you. And Lancelot, I’m sure you remember my imbecile of a servant, Merlin,” Arthur nudges Merlin forward and Merlin sticks his tongue out at him. Oh, he’ll have better use of that tongue later. _Nope, not the time, Arthur_. “I hear the troop that led you here and yourselves have been injured.”

“It was nothing life threatening, sire, though Sir Osric did sustain a broken rib,” Lancelot says. This honourable sod, Arthur can see him walking with a slight limp.

“But it was Morgana?”

“We didn’t see her personally but the soldiers bore her banner, yes. From what we’ve seen, she has indeed amassed an army along with Morgause and Cenred. She’ll be coming soon.”

There has been talk in the lower town about Morgana, how she made a banner and crest for herself. He figured those were only whispers of frightened villagers and children with big imaginations. They told about a banner, a red Rowan staff –symbolizing the ancient Rowan staffs used by the High Priestesses of the Old Religion- on a black field but now that he knows that they weren’t just stories, he dreads to think what else might be true. Have Morgana and her men ravaged other villages, slowly gaining their strength through little victories before coming for them in Camelot?

“When?” Arthur asks

“With that many men,” Lancelot says with a grave voice, “I’d say she’d be here in less than three days.”

“Three days. Three days is enough to get people out of the city. Merlin,” he says, “accompany Sir Leon and the patrol to inform the people. They’ll listen to you two, they won’t be as scared. Tell them…tell them I will do my best to protect their home.”

“Is that wise, sire?” Lancelot asks.

“If Morgana’s forces are as strong as you say, Camelot is not the safest place they can be when they attack. They can hide in the woods and the forests, maybe take shelter in outlining kingdoms, all I want to do is make sure they’re safe,” Arthur says and turns to Merlin. “Merlin.”

“Yes, sire.” Merlin nods and leaves them be. There’ll be a time where he can kiss Merlin goodbye but this isn’t it.

“Lancelot, Percival, join the knights on the training ground, they’ll brief you on what we’ve been planning. If any of them disrespect you simply because you are not of noble blood, tell them they’ll be speaking to me.” They bow to him and leave to convene with the knights, which leaves him and Gwen alone.

“Arthur, I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why should you ever be sorry, Guinevere?”

“I knew. About Morgana’s magic. I should’ve told you but she was my best friend, I just…I wanted to protect her.”

She knew? Of course she knew. Gwen seemed to know things he had been oblivious to for years. She probably hung to Morgana in her last days, telling her there was another way to end things here because there always was. She believed in Morgana, and Arthur thinks, like him, there’ll be a part of her that always will.

“Me, too,” Arthur says softly, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Then, he looks at Guinevere and she is steady in her posture and demeanor, determined to let the sadness and regret hide underneath her skin because this is going to be a time of a war and they’re not that lucky. His queen, forever and always, knowing the cost of war and willing to pay the price even if her eyes shone with tears sometimes. Her hand never faltered in her rule and he hoped, back in his dying days in Avalon, that it never did after his death.

“What do you want me to do, Arthur?” she asks.

“Stay with me. I’ll need your council.”

“Arthur, I’m just a servant.”

“Yes.” Arthur smiles and takes her hand in his. “But you servants prove to be more useful than everyone else thinks. You’re a lady to me and you’re going to help me win this war that way, yes?”

Guinevere blushes. “I’m sure Merlin tells you you’re a royal idiot more than enough that I hardly need to say it, do I, sire?”

“’Fraid so.”

 

If he was anxious before, then he’s on a whole other level now. Three days is enough to get his people out of the main city, yes, into the neighbouring and welcoming arms of other kingdoms or into the outer cities and villages of Camelot. But three days isn’t enough for the King of Camelot to welcome the threat of his sister. Even as the main city dwindles in its numbers, their people going off into hiding, there are whispers and stories of how Morgana rides on a horse as black as night, fearless as they come, towards the gates of Camelot.

The rest of his council stays inside of the main castle, waiting for the attack. Even the servants have been permitted to leave, to return to their families, so it’s just a few hundred of his men staying in his castle, barely a thousand. They’re all made up of knights and squires, hedge-knights and paid swords. He hopes that’s enough to withstand Morgana’s forces. It doesn’t seem like that sometimes.

Morgana’s forces may yet be bigger than what they thought and Arthur’s sitting here, thinking about how he won’t let any of his friends into a blind battle because he can’t live with every single one of them. The neighbouring kingdoms that happily housed Camelot’s fearful people are small and, even if they obliged to lend a few men, it would barely make a difference. They have what they have and he has to hope that’s enough.

Arthur’s offered Merlin the chance to go back to Ealdor so he can make sure his mother is safe but he just shook his head then, kissed Arthur chastely on the mouth and continued reading through the maps of Camelot’s defences. They haven’t done anything in these past few days than kissing softly and giving comforting gestures and sharing Arthur’s bed at night, after they’ve tired and they’ve found a way to fall asleep tangled in each other. Merlin doesn’t mind, though, not having anything more for the time being and Arthur’s eternally grateful because he doesn’t know if he can give Merlin wants this very second.

Because it hasn’t escaped Arthur’s attention of what Merlin wants. He’s seen the looks Merlin gives him that only last a millisecond, how he licks his lips sometimes and he presses just a little harder on that last kiss. There’ll be a time, hopefully, after this dreaded war where they can be naked on any horizontal surface, skin against skin in the best way possible until the smell of blood and strife has been replaced by the scent of satiation and pleasure.

On the eve of the foretold doomsday, Arthur doesn’t see Merlin at all. He wakes up alone and dresses himself –which he is completely capable of doing, thank you very much- and goes to training and council meetings without hearing a peep from Merlin. He grows worried mere minutes after he wakes up until Gwen tells him Merlin’s busy, taking care of provisions just in case of a siege and patrolling the lower town with Leon for any citizen left.

It’s evening until he returns to his chambers and that’s where he finds Merlin.

Merlin’s sitting up on the bed and looking out the window anxiously. “Hi,” he says to Arthur and leans up to kiss him.

“What were you doing today?” Arthur asks, bringing himself to a seating position in front of Merlin, still in his chainmail because Merlin’s more important than the heavy weight of metal on his body. “I haven’t seen you the whole day and I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

“I was busy and I was…I was scared,” Merlin confesses.  “It’s three days tomorrow. Three days since we found Lancelot and Percival, that’s when they said…”

“I remember what they said, Merlin.”

“Why aren’t you more anxious? More scared?”

Arthur sighs and puts his hands on Merlin’s legs. Skinny boy; Arthur can feel the sharp jut of his bones under his skin. “Because we’ve done enough.”

“I can feel that something bad is going to happen.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Merlin.” Arthur makes sure Merlin is looking at him when says this and Merlin doesn’t blush like he usually does when Arthur basically professes his love for him.

Instead, he looks hardened and too strong for Arthur’s liking, until he brings his hand forward to pull Arthur closer to his body. He kisses Arthur like he’s a lake; slow and steady and languid like waves, and Arthur kisses back like he wants to drown. Merlin sinks back into the bed and Arthur towers over him, his hands holding him up and Merlin’s own hands snaking up Arthur’s hair, pushing and pulling, releasing when he moans and tightly when Arthur moves away to kiss the skin around Merlin’s lips.

His cheeks and jawline, his tongue drawing the strong lines of Merlin’s face and his lips kissing away whatever worries Merlin might have. He traces kisses all along his cheekbones, nipping and biting, until he dips down to place a kiss on the curve where his neck and shoulder meet. At this, Merlin breath hitches a bit until he lets out a small giggle.

“You’re ticklish there, aren’t you?” Arthur asks and moves down the landscape of Merlin’s body, touching every sliver of skin that his tunic doesn’t cover.

“Great, one more thing you can lord over me,” Merlin says, but fondly.

Arthur lifts the bottom of Merlin’s tunic and licks all along the trail of hair leading to his cock and Merlin nearly arches off the bed. He’s so close but not enough and he can see how crazy that’s driving Merlin.

“Gorgeous,” Arthur manages to breathe out against his skin.

“Arthur, we shouldn’t,” Merlin says. But his voice, raspy and full of lust, basically screams out, _Arthur, we should._

“Why not?”

“Because you’re going to need your concentration tomorrow and knowing what my cock looks like won’t help.”

“Smooth one, aren’t you?” Arthur kisses the smirk off Merlin’s face. “It’s not fair you know what my cock looks like, then.”

“Does it make you feel better or worse if I tell you your cock has been the fixation of my wank fantasies for years?”

Arthur groans, imagining Merlin in his chambers, trying to be quiet and picturing Arthur’s cock. “Worse.”

“Arthur, how long have you felt this way about me?” Merlin says from under him, his fingers ghosting up and down Arthur’s arms. “I never even knew you thought of me like this until three days ago. And you were always so rude to me, I just figured…”

“I’m trying to make up for past mistakes before it’s too late, Merlin,” Arthur says softly. _More than you’ll ever know_. He never told Merlin in his first lifetime but he remembered that spell, the spell that made him a fool and simpleton, when Morgana overtook Camelot with Helios. It came back to him in waves but, after a while, he could remember whole events then.

He remembers sitting around the fire with Merlin, eating soup in the quietness of the forest; remembering him saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and how surprised Merlin was after that but, most of all, he remembers saying, “I’m sorry to have been such a disappointment, Merlin,” and _meaning_ it. How many years had Merlin suffered taunts and teases from Arthur then, being told he was useless and insufficient and the worst servant to ever grace the walls of Camelot –Arthur had been feeling extremely annoyed when he gifted that to Merlin- and how many times had Arthur even thought about the consequences of that?

Stronger men would’ve left but not Merlin, never Merlin. How many times had Arthur called him stupid when all he wanted to say instead were praises and compliments, singing of Merlin’s qualities instead of the talents he didn’t possess? Maybe Merlin would’ve turned out a little less bruised and broken if Arthur had realized that, maybe they would’ve spent years kissing like this instead of holding back what was obviously there for both of them and, even with this Merlin now, Arthur still can’t seem to forgive himself.

“Well, don’t change _everything_ ,” Merlin says.

“I won’t,” Arthur says, “idiot.”

“Prat.”

“And if you’re going to insist on kissing some more, it would be a great deal easier for you if you took off your damned chainmail,” Merlin says. Arthur laughs and he’s just about to undress when they’re a sudden knock on the door, loud and urgent.

Arthur and Merlin share a look before Arthur goes to answer the door. It’s Kay and he’s out of breath.

“Hi there, Wart, and Merlin,” Kay says and looks at Arthur, from his mussed hair to his lips red from kissing. “Well, this is awkward. First of all, good on you and second-” The warning bells start ringing right then. “Things are happening.”

“Merlin,” Arthur turns to him, “get dressed, there’s an extra sword under the bed, arm yourself and meet Gwen and Lancelot in the right wing, they’ll be waiting. We have a plan, remember that and don’t get distracted.”

Merlin nods and gives him his sword and one last kiss before Arthur’s out the door.

“What’s happening?” Arthur asks Kay. From a distance, he can hear the shouts and screams of war.

“Tower guards saw a fire and sent men to see what the problem was. Their horses came back carrying the bodies of their riders and Morgana’s banner. Her men will be in the citadel in a matter of minutes.”

“Where are the others?”

“Positioned as we planned. Percival and Bed are at the castle entrance with a few dozen men, my father should be in the right wing when you get there, Leon is with Gaius, getting the bombs, we’re going to take this down.”

“I’m glad you’re so enthusiastic.”

“There isn’t a better way to enter a war, Wart,” Kay says and unsheathes his sword.

The warning bells seem to get louder and louder until Arthur hears a bellowing scream from a voice he recognizes as Percival’s, shouting, “They’re here!”

There’s a thunder of noises going around them, as if the battle’s started in seconds. From a distance, he can hear the beginnings of war. There are horses coming into the castle entrances and men fighting by the castle steps, swords clashing down and banners of red and gold flying amidst the red and black. Rowan staffs battle against golden dragons and Arthur sees some of each fall as he looks out the window. They’re not safe here either, Kay and Arthur, because there are strange noises popping out of nowhere; sudden thuds against the ground.

“Those bastards,” Kay curses and, when Arthur turns, he sees it.

Morgana’s men are magic and they’re coming in by the tenfold, suddenly appearing around them. They take a few seconds to orientate themselves but, as soon as their eyes blink, they raise their swords against Kay and Arthur. Arthur’s men are running about, trying to deal with this new threat so they can’t be of any help to him now. No, this is his fight.

There are about twenty men surrounding him and Kay, black masks on their faces like the ancient knights of the Blood Guard, and Arthur clashes down his sword against theirs. Their eyes are golden and they seem to radiate power through each blow of their swords. Soon enough, Kay and Arthur are backed up against the wall of a corridor without anyone to help them. One of Morgana’s men raises his sword and slashes through a good bit of skin on Kay’s arm and he yells out in pain.

Arthur’s almost ready to burn everything down before he’s even seen Morgana just from that noise but, suddenly, there’s smoke all around them and Morgana’s men fall back. The smoke unfurls and Arthur can barely see what’s happening, can just hear the sudden shouts of pain from Morgana’s men as Arthur kneels down to help Kay, even though he seems just fine.

“Whoever that is, I like him already,” Kay laughs.

Out of the smoke, a figure comes out to greet them. Gwaine. He has a sword in his hand and blood decorating his fingers but it’s still Gwaine, with his big smile and great hair.

“I bet you’re happy to see me, Princess,” he says, helping Arthur up.

“It’s Queen now,” Arthur says, gripping his arm. “Gwaine, take Kay to Gaius, I have to go meet the others at the east wing.”

Armed with his sword, Arthur runs towards the right wing where Merlin, Gwen and Lancelot waiting for him but a knife pierces through the air, aimed for him. He swerves and the aim, fortunately, misses but the thrower is heading straight towards him: a middle-aged woman with blood on her face, fury in her hands.

He raises his sword but the action is futile because this woman has golden eyes and is now using them to build balls of fire in the palms of her hands. She runs towards him like a demon in flames and starts throwing the fireballs in his general vicinity. A sword can’t stop incoming fire, Arthur knows.

Her fingers are coated with little fires when she slows down her movements and move toward him. It’s like she’s seducing him, with her wily smile and her flames, but Arthur thinks fast and pulls the woman into a headlock until she’s pressed against him, face looking up to him and body unable to move.

“Stop,” Arthur says but all the while, his father’s voice rings in his head, saying, _Pendragons don’t beg_.

“Who do you think you are? The King?” she asks.

“That’s exactly who I am.”

“Oh,” the woman says. “She didn’t say to kill you. Not yet, anyway.”

Arthur manoeuvres so that he’s pressing the woman against the wall, the length of his arm at her neck and the knife she used at him pointing at her cheek. “How did she get you?”

“You mean, in her bed? Because that was easy. Have you seen her?” the woman laughs and Arthur brings the knife closer so it draws a little bit of blood. “Imagine you were me, _sire_. If someone gave you, a magic user, the opportunity to kill and destroy the king and city that would burn you alive without a second thought, well, the only question you’d ask would be how high, wouldn’t it?”

Arthur relaxes in his grip and the woman takes advantage by bringing back her fire-wielding hands and pressing them against his arm, singeing through the armour unti the fires bare skin. He screams and drops to the floor but the woman doesn’t stop. She throws fireballs at him until he’s fully down on the floor and helpless and then it stops. The pain doesn’t stop, no, he can still feel it in every inch of his body but the attacks and strikes seem to disappear.

He turns his head to see the woman’s body on the ground with an arrow piercing through her chest, and Lancelot with a crossbow, along with Merlin, Gwen and Sir Ector, Kay’s father, running towards him.

The castle is rumbling and Arthur can hear, from a distance, the sounds of people dying. His people. It wasn’t supposed to go this way, this was supposed to be predictable because he knew his enemy and he knew what Morgana wanted: him. At least that’s what he thought but, now his men are getting killed and his castle is going to be turned to ash if he doesn’t do something about it. The citizens are safe, away from the fight, Morgana would have no one to harm in the main city if they left and they need to leave.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, kneeling down next to him and checking his wounds. The burns sting his skin and the pain makes Arthur dizzy. “We have to go. I know you wanted to protect the citadel but we can’t hold on for any longer. Morgana’s unpredictable and our plan failed. We won’t survive.”

Sir Ector comes to his side and says, “I will send the signal to the men and they will know they have to carry out the escape plan. I will fight off any of Morgana’s men that try to stop you from going past.”

“What escape plan?” Arthur asks. “You can’t expect me to leave my men behind.”

“We can’t all be idealists about war, Arthur. Gwen devised an escape plan for a few of us to escape into the woods, you just have to follow us,” Merlin explains.

Gwen blushes at the recognition. Arthur turns to Sir Ector and asks, “What about you?”

“I will guard Camelot from the inside, sire. I know a secret tunnel where I can hide, along with a few others who will stay. But you must go, my Lord.”

“Kay will hate me if I leave without you.”

Sir Ector smiles, a more subdued and calm smile than his son’s. “Tell him I forbid it.”

Merlin helps Arthur to his feet, his arm around his waist and Arthur’s arm around Merlin’s shoulder. “Take care of Gaius for me,” Merlin says to Sir Ector and the knight nods.

Arthur looks at Sir Ector, shakes his hand goodbye. Sir Ector had always been good to him, he’d tell Arthur and Kay folktales if they were sick. Gwen and Lancelot follow him and Merlin through the hallways and, as they turn the corner, Arthur can hear the grunt of Sir Ector as he clashes down his sword.

They go through abandoned corridors and hallways, until they stop at a dead end. It’s a plain brick-and-mortar wall, with the bust of an old king of Camelot –King Aeron, if he remembers correctly, who had six wives and built a tower for each of them.

“Well, this is great,” Arthur says, the pain getting to his head.

Gwen steps forward and tilts King Aeron’s head, until the brick wall behind it moves and moves, revealing a secret passageway inside.

“Oh, you’re brilliant,” Arthur says to Gwen.

Gwen has apparently hidden lanterns and emergency packs inside the passageway in case of the escape plan coming to pass and she passes them around the four of them, leaving the rest of the others who might be joining them. The pain from his burns and wound are taking their toll and Arthur can barely keep his eyes open as they pass through the deep cavern underneath the castle. Merlin keeps coaxing him out of it, telling him comforting lies that it’s all okay and they’re going to be fine but his eyes keep closing anyway.

Soon, though, he sees a light at the end of the cavern and Merlin hastily helps him through. All around him are trees and forest hills but, not too far away, there’s the castle of Camelot. The sight of the towers of Camelot burning is the last thing Arthur sees before he passes out.

 

It’s early morning when Arthur wakes, the light blue of dawn decorating the skies when he looks at them. They’re in the forest and Arthur’s been sleeping on Merlin’s lap as Merlin sleeps against a tree. The fire has been put out by the wind but it’s still light enough to see the people around the campsite.

There’s Lancelot and Gwen, huddled near each other but not quite touching, with Elyan sleeping near his sister; Kay and Bedivere unashamedly cuddling because it’s almost winter in Camelot and the nights are getting cold, Percival curled up like a cat, Leon next to him and Gwaine with his body sprawled all over the ground. Arthur touches the burns on his shoulder and waist and finds them to be covered in a few chewed up leaves and the pain’s receded. He still feels a bit weak but he gets up anyway. He fetches a tunic from a nearby pack and looks around.

He doesn’t know these woods, they must be really far out of Camelot. When Arthur looks up and sees the distant silhouette of Camelot’s castle, he guesses they’ve run a bit north.. The Northern Plains bear no king or kingdom, only a small castle and watched over by a Lord Hasting but Arthur doesn’t know if he would welcome the King of Camelot intruding in his peaceful dominion and Arthur doesn’t want to take the chance. Further north is the Lake Alwyn and the kingdom of Astolat, presided by King Bernard and his daughter, Elaine. They’re allies of Camelot and they’d welcome them with ease but it’s a few days’ ride and they have no horses or an abundance of supplies. And Camelot’s closest neighbouring kingdoms have already adamantly refused to be part of Camelot’s war.

Arthur doesn’t know where to go but he has to find some place. They can’t stay out here in the cold until they find a better plan to overthrow Morgana. They’d be frozen to death before they even reached back to Camelot. He has an obligation to his people, to this small band of outlaws that are going to look to him for salvation.

“Morning,” Merlin says, coming up from behind him and resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. And worse.” Arthur looks at the towers of Camelot.

“You know how important it was for us to leave, Arthur. We couldn’t stay there, not if we wanted you safe. We need a better plan and we can’t come up with one if we’re Morgana’s prisoners.”

“I know. I just,” Arthur sighs, “I don’t have a better plan right now, even now we’re out of Camelot.”

“Maybe not right now but look at what we do have. Between the ten of us, we can be unstoppable,” Merlin says, putting his hands on Arthur’s face. “And I’m going to be by your side like I always am, protecting you.”

“That sounds vaguely familiar,” Arthur laughs.

“You said I would say it and here I am, saying it and _meaning_ it.” Merlin leans forward and kisses Arthur, soft and reassuring, and Arthur’s hand immediately finds its way around Merlin’s waist.

Someone in the campsite groans. Kay. “Okay, so now that you two are an item now, are we going to be subjected to seeing you sucking face with each other every day?” Bedivere wakes up next to him, arms still around his best friend, and Kay says, “Oi, wake up, you big lump, you’re crushing me.”

“Where are we?” Bedivere asks.

“That’s actually a good idea. Where are we?” Arthur asks Merlin.

“A little outside the Darkling Woods,” he answers.

“The Darkling Woods is still too close for comfort,” Kay says, “we need to move, and soon. We don’t know how long Morgana will like ruling over a ghost town before she sets her sights outside of the main city.”

“Bedivere, wake the others. Kay, you can help Merlin with breakfast. We’ll need our strength today,” Arthur says.

Bedivere nods without question but Kay stands up and snarls at him, and not in a joking manner either. Arthur would’ve expected that Kay wouldn’t be too happy after leaving Sir Ector in Camelot but it still stings. Kay’s one of his closest friends and he doesn’t want there to be strife in between their little band of renegades.

Arthur sits down against a tree as the others wake up. Merlin said they were close to the Darkling Woods and, if he’s right, then he knows exactly where to go.

The ten of them sit around a newly lit fire, eating strips of dried beef and pickled eggs –Arthur smiles at that, Merlin still remembers it’s Arthur’s favourite- with some sweet berries Merlin found in the woods. They’re fairly quiet at first, because the silent shadow of war is still around them, but, after a while, Gwaine makes a joke about how pickled eggs make someone’s fart smelly as hell and they fall into an easy flow of conversation.

Gwen shivers slightly from the cold wind and Lancelot drapes his jacket over her like the gentleman he is. Someone sighs and Elyan says, “I hope this is a short war. I don’t want to be out here when winter comes.”

Like that, they fall into silence again. Winters in the north are treacherous and if they keep walking north with limited provisions, away from the main city, they might never see the spring.

“I won’t let that happen,” Arthur assures. “We’ll take back Camelot soon enough.”

“Where do we go in the meantime?” Gwen asks.

“There’s an abandoned castle a few hours from here. It’s sturdy, makes a good fortress and there’s a fresh water lake downhill, but it’s out of the way so they won’t think to look for us there. Plus there are a few fireplaces so we can probably sleep warm tonight,” Arthur explains.

“Warmmmm…” Merlin sighs happily and burrows into Arthur’s arms to make a point.

They finish off their meal, wash their hands and faces in the lake nearby and set off, each with a pack containing provisions, a torch and a change of clothes. Each of them carry a weapon, most of them have swords because that’s their chosen weapon but Elyan’s equipped himself with a crossbow and Gwen has a few knives strapped to her person.  Arthur leads the group through the thicket of trees of the woods, the green and brown melding together in nature.

He hears chatter from behind him, his friends making jokes and small talk but he’s quiet with Merlin by his side. He tells Merlin he’s welcome to join them, if he wants, because he’s not very good company at the moment. But Merlin doesn’t mind. In fact, he more than shows it by holding Arthur’s hand in the open, humming to himself the tune those men were singing in the tavern they visited. They haven’t really been open with their affections since they got together but he thinks his men knew his feelings for Merlin even before he did. It’s just odd, being able to be in love with Merlin like this, even if Merlin doesn’t yet know the depth of Arthur’s feelings for him, but a nice odd. Arthur looks back to Gwen, who looks at his and Merlin’s entwined hands, and nods, as if she’s known all along.

As the trees begin to thin and they escape from the forests’ realm, into the grand, open field of unchartered lands, for some reason, Merlin’s grip on his hand grows tighter. Maybe he’s worried now that the morning has almost passed nd they might not reach the castle before evening. Arthur is  sure they’re close. Around them there are tall slopes, leading up mountains in the distance, and open fields that could be used for crop growing –Arthur makes a note of its location so he can have his people grow harvest here in the spring- and there’s a rich scent of berries and water around them. It’s a good place to be, maybe they can even find game in between the trees tomorrow.

Further up ahead, he sees abandoned houses and empty huts of people long before dead. No one ever visited this part of Camelot, fearing it was haunted by the ghosts of the ancient kings of Camelot and their people, but, when he closes his eyes, all he smells and hears are sounds of life. The ancient kings never liked living in cities, they always preferred to live closer to their people, only guarded by their small and formidable castles so they might walk about and see their people. The citizens then had no reason to fear, for crops were in abundance and the kings were kind and there were many lands still to be chartered and conquered. Arthur realizes he wants Camelot to be like this.

The people would love him and, most of all, they would have hope.

Arthur asks the others to search the abandoned houses if they had anything they might need. He and Merlin enter a small hut, almost collapsing from age, and he’s caught with such a sense of grief that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s not even grief for anyone’s death or his own but for Merlin’s. This young Merlin who he can kiss whenever he so chooses grew up in a hut like this, small and cramped with barely enough room to breathe, and it makes Arthur wonder if he went back to Ealdor after Arthur died. If he fell into Hunith’s arms like a boy, body wracking with sobs and defeat, telling his mother everything he lived for was dead. The thought makes Arthur want to scream.

He never wants any version of Merlin broken like that. He wants Merlin to grow old in a hut like this, away from talks of war and bloody battles, wants him to have children and a family, to have things Arthur could never have given him. He wants Merlin to have a good end. Quite selfishly, he wants Merlin to have that with him.

Arthur inches closer to Merlin and kisses him full on the mouth. He pins Merlin against the nearest vertical surface and Merlin moans against his lips. “We’re supposed to be looking for stuff,” Merlin has enough sense to say.

“I want you to grow old with me,” Arthur blurts out, drunk on how Merlin tastes; like the berries they had this morning and something indescribably Merlin.

Merlin is taken aback. “I’ll try,” he says. He doesn’t know that he won’t be the one who has to try so hard. He kisses the corner of Arthur’s mouth and pulls away.

They do end up finding a few knives and a rabbit Arthur quickly kills, so they’ll be able to eat it tonight.

They regroup and, by then, it’s late afternoon. The sky is hued with such beautiful oranges and reds that Arthur almost wants to stop and look at it but they’re so close to the castle now and the others are tired. Even Merlin walks with a heaviness next to him. Soon, the tall, crumbling silhouette of the castle is just beyond them.

They walk up the tall slope, the walls next to it covered with moss, and Arthur looks back at his little band. He saw Gwen was struggling to keep awake back in the village and, now, Elyan’s taken it upon himself to carry his sister up the broken steps of the castle entrance. She suffered some minor wounds, and between taking care of the others who were wounded and the cold night, he can’t have imagined she had enough rest.

Finally, Arthur opens the big gates of the castle, letting the wind blow into the abandoned space. It’s just how he remembers it; dusty and old but there’s enough space for all of them to sleep. There’s the Round Table, too, covered under a cloth but there will time enough to look at it properly in days to come. They light the fireplace and candle holders and Kay sighs aloud in contentment.

“Good find, Wart,” he says.

“It’ll be enough for a few days. We all need a good night’s rest for now,” Arthur says. “Search the place, see what you can find.”

As expected, they find a few old weapons but, unlike last time, Bedivere finds a small storage space that hides old clothes and sleeping furs.

Arthur suggests cooking the rabbit imself but Merlin practically smacks his hand away, telling him off for being a terrible cook and he still hasn’t forgiven him for cooking that stew one time on a dare (“It tasted like rubber, Arthur, how did you even _do_ that?”). So Merlin cooks, roasts the chicken with some onions they found and makes it a feast by pouring a little honeyed wine he saved for everyone.

“Mm, what’s the occasion?” Leon asks as he sips the wine and makes an appreciative sound. Arthur doesn’t blame him; the air around them tastes like winter and the wine like summer.

Merlin shrugs. “We’re alive.” And the rest of them raise their cups to that.

They’re careful not to talk about the war so Lancelot talks about his journeys around Albion, all across the Five Kingdoms, and so does Gwaine, but his stories include a lot more mead than Lancelot’s. They’re happy until Arthur mentions Sir Ector, in relevance to Barking River where Lancelot was traveling, because that was where Kay was born.

Kay just snaps right then and there. “You don’t get to talk about my father, Pendragon,” he yells, takes his plate and goes to sulk at the far corner of the castle.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says quietly, because the apology doesn’t really matter.

Kay’s got every right to be mad at him. Arthur escaped Camelot with only a handful of men, condemning the hundreds in his care to Morgana’s rule, and he blames himself for that, too. If there was a way to get his men out of Camelot now, he’d find it but it’s too dangerous and Kay must understand it.

“It’s alright, Arthur, you know how he is,” Bedivere says after they’ve all finished eating. “He’s always been very…strong about his emotions. Thinks a hot temper is better than no temper at all. He’ll come around.”

“He’s one of my oldest friends, Bedivere, I can’t have him be mad at me,” Arthur says. “He knows all my deepest, darkest secrets, that man does.”

“Like what?”

“They’re called deepest, darkest secrets for a reason, Bedivere.”

“Is it the fact that you had a crush on Morgana before she moved in with you and Uther?”

Arthur gasps. “He _told_ you?”

“Oh gods, it’s _true_? I was just joking,” Bedivere says and laughs aloud.

“Yes, because I take the act of incest _so_ very lightly,” Arthur sighs. “I can see why you two are inseparable.”

“Mm, I’ve seen it since I met the poor sod,” Bedivere says absent-mindedly. That must be nice, to know you’re going to love someone forever from the moment you met them. Arthur’s sure he’s had that, too, but it only took a lifetime for him to realize it. “Kay’s a good man, Arthur, and, whether he admits it or not, you’re like a brother to him. I’m not saying things haven’t changed since you became king because of course they have, we’ve been friends with you since you were a boy and we can tell the difference. I’m just saying not all things have to change.”

“He’s jealous, isn’t he? That I’m King and I have all these new knights?”

“Don’t worry, he makes me pretend he’s king when we’re alone so I think those issues may have greatly subsided. Though giving him a crown wouldn’t hurt.”

Gwen comes up from behind him and Arthur tells Bedivere to go check on Kay and give him a hug for Arthur’s sake.

She doesn’t skip a beat and just dives in, asking, “So, you and Merlin?”

“Oh gods, Guinevere, we’re not going to have the talk, are we?” Arthur says with a smile.

“Just the talk that asks you if you’re happy.”

Arthur looks over Gwen’s shoulder and sees Merlin laughing over something Percival said, his mouth open in a smile and his eyes as blue as sapphires, and Arthur just wants to go there, shake him and tell him he wants to be his, forever, that he has been for a while.

“I’m happy. I’m happy in a way being with you never made me, in a way you were never happy enough with me,” Arthur says truthfully. “There was always something missing, wasn’t there? A small part that seemed insignificant but, after a while, you realized it was important, you just thought you could live without. I was never in love with you the way you deserved it, Guinevere, and you deserve it. By gods, do you deserve it.”

“Do you think…?” Gwen asks, looking back at Lancelot.

“Do I think he still loves you?” Arthur says and smiles. “Gwen, I don’t think he’ll ever stop.”

Gwen blushes then, bowing her head in embarrassment. _My girl_ , he thinks. He kisses her on her forehead and goes outside of the castle, to get some fresh air. He walks down the slope and to the small lake by the castle. The lake is surrounded by boulders covered in moss and tall trees with branches reaching out like fingers. It’s peaceful here, a kind of stillness he can’t find in Camelot.

He sits by the lake, looking at the mud and grime on his face, and is kind of shocked to realize that this face staring back at him belongs to the King of Camelot. It makes him feel powerful in the best way possible, like he knows it’s not going to go to his head, because he looks at himself and he’s still young. He almost doesn’t look a king, just a prince or a little lord. The others join him by the lake, even Kay, washing their hands and faces until Leon accidentally flicks water to Gwaine, who takes it as offence and splashes entire face with water. All the lads join in, even Gwen, who kicks water in Lancelot’s face who laughs aloud and shoves her straight into the lake. Kay takes this as an invitation, strips off his tunic and jumps straight into the water, hitting Merlin in the face with water from the impact.

“I’m going to _kill_ you,” Merlin yells at Kay and jumps in to dunk Kay’s head under the water. Kay resurfaces and sprays water on Merlin’s face.

Arthur doesn’t notice the hand around his ankle until Leon pulls him in, his body splashing in the water. Gwen is riding piggyback on Percival as they go about splashing water in everyone’s faces and Gwaine is practically kissing everyone on the cheek.

They’re all big, huge messes, laughing and yelling, being cleaned of the battles and their journeys and it’s the best kind of mess. He’s lucky. He would’ve been luckier if Morgana was playing with them here, too, but he’s lucky enough.

“What is that, do you hear something?” Elyan asks suddenly.

All of them still in their places and look around. There it is, in the distance, the sound of horses riding furiously towards them. No.

They all get out of the lake, all of them sopping wet, and run to the castle gates to grab their weapons. The horses are getting closer to them and he can see the look of fear on the faces of his people.

“Should we run? We should run, right?” Elyan asks.

“I can only hear a handful of horses, we can fight a few easy but we can’t risk going another night without shelter,” Arthur says. “We make our stand here.”

The horses come to a halt a few yards away and he can hear the men sharpening their swords. “Gwen, go up to the courtyard and tell us what you see,” he instructs. The rest of them stay down, hands clutched on their weapons, hearts in their mouths.

Gwen comes back in a hurry and says, “Six men, one unarmed with six horses. If we can take them down, we can probably take their horses to ride back to Camelot when we’re ready.”

“Six men, we can take them down no problem,” Merlin says. “We outnumber them.”

“Maybe,” Arthur says, “but you’re not going out there.”

“Wart, you’re doing that thing where you’re being obnoxiously noble again,” Kay says.

“Thanks for the reminder,” Arthur says dryly. “Merlin, Lance, you stay here with Gwen and help us from the top. Don’t come down unless it’s a last resort. I can’t lose you, any of you. If I die, you’re all Camelot has left. True children of the citadel and I’m not going to give that over to Morgana’s men.”

“You’re an idiot,” Merlin says but admits defeat.

Arthur brings him in closer and kisses him slow. “I love you,” he says and leaves.

It’s like a game and, when Arthur moves into the scene, he’s the one that accidentally moves first. All the men spring into the action but Arthur’s quick to move. He remembers what Merlin said so many years ago when he was fighting an opponent in the tourney: “And you’re fast.” Just see how fast I really am.

Despite walking the whole day and getting little no rest in their journey, along with his injuries and burns, Arthur moves quickly, energized and stealthy. He wonders if it’s Merlin’s magic protecting him again. He slashes his sword, each time hitting flesh and sending a man to the ground. Some of them fight back so Arthur just tightens his grip and drives the sword deeper into the enemy’s body.

One of the men isn’t armed, which is curious, but Arthur sees it then. The man has golden eyes and Arthur’s in trouble. The warlock wrestles him to the ground until he’s almost sitting on top of him. Arthur raises his sword to defend himself but the warlock just smirks. Within seconds, his sword grows hot in his hands and, fortunately, Arthur lets go of it before it catches on fire and melts right before his eyes.

The warlock is so close, Arthur can smell the stink of his breath. He felt the searing heat of his melting sword against his palm and reluctantly drops it. Out of nowhere, an arrow shoots right through the warlock’s chest, and he sputters out blood on Arthur’s face before he drops dead on the floor.

“Elyan!” he shouts out to the man on the balcony. “What the hell?”

“Oh yeah, I apologize, sire, for saving your life. I promise I’ll leave you to rot next time,” Elyan calls back sarcastically.

Two of the men Arthur fought aren’t as dead as he thought but, luckily, Leon and Kay arrive to slash their throats, spraying blood on their clothes and faces.

“Well, that was fun,” Kay says with a smile.

“You worry me sometimes,” Leon tells him and Kay just shrugs as the others come down from the castle.

They search the men for useful things and nick the swords because they need as many weapons as they can get, if the rest of Camelot’s warriors are languishing in prison. Merlin is a bit still next to him, probably still trying to digest the news of his declaration but there was no way he didn’t know. He must’ve known, somewhere in his subconscious, that Arthur loves him like this.

The ten of them consider this a victory and head up to the castle for a night’s rest. Most of them are still wounded and weak, even Arthur’s burns are still evident because they’ve seared off a fair bit of skin. Gwaine’s got a deep scratch on his leg so Percival takes it upon himself to carry the poor lad up to the castle.

Merlin’s still quiet when they finish their business, only Lancelot and Gwen still sitting nearby to relax, until he suddenly says, “Why didn’t you tell me you love me?” quite loudly.

“Well,” Arthur has enough nerve to smirk here, “why didn’t you tell me you have magic?”

“I-!” Merlin’s getting angry now, probably because Arthur looks so calm. He can’t be blamed, honestly, he’s waited for this moment for a long time and Merlin only waited until Arthur was dying to tell him his biggest secret the first time, and he should have some fun. He’s having fun seeing Merlin’s face turn a dozen shades of red.

“Uh, we should go,” Lancelot says awkwardly. Gwen’s just as dumbfounded as Merlin as he steers her away.

“Well, I was too bloody busy saving your arse,” Merlin says, aggravated and annoyed. “What’s your excuse?”

Arthur smiles now and leans in closer to Merlin. “I was too busy trying to build a good kingdom. For you.”

Merlin is red in the face, like he’s so mad at how stupid Arthur is. And then it all stops because Merlin just pushes into his personal space, hand in his hair, arm around his waist and lips crushing against his. Strong, this kiss is, trying to make a point but there’s also a softness to it, as Merlin licks his bottom lip because he’s been waiting for this moment for the longest time. All at once, through his kisses, Merlin is saying Arthur’s an idiot and he loves him back and _thank you thank you thank you_.

“We’re going to have words about this when we get back home,” Merlin says.

“Of course, I want to hear all your stories,” Arthur says. He snakes a hand up Merlin’s tunic, still wet from the lake, and puts his warm hand against the cold skin, earning a shiver from Merlin. He looks down on the ground and sees his beloved sword almost molten, bent in half from the warlock’s spells. “Mm, I need a new sword.”

“That can be arranged,” Merlin says and Arthur’s wondering if they’re both thinking of the same sword. He quite misses Excalibur, the grip of it, the inscriptions on the blade, and the feel of it as he swings it at his enemies. “Now, we’re going to sleep and cuddle together and not think about anything, okay?”

“That sounds alright.”

 

They fall asleep tangled in each other’s arms, their feet hooked together underneath one of the sleeping furs, and Arthur doesn’t remember being so comfortable. They can still feel the coldness of the night but Merlin’s like a furnace in human form next to him. Sometime in the night, though, he feels the warmth disappear. He’s in Avalon by then, walking through the trees and smelling the apples, when the warm, summery weather shifts. It’s like, when he is in Avalon, he is a miniature living in his breathing body and everything the body experiences, his Avalon experiences, as well. Arthur’s found out that Avalon must be different for everyone because Freya always makes allusions to other people he’s never met. Maybe her Avalon is filled with the figures of her late family to occupy her treehouse. He doesn’t know why his Avalon is so lonely.

Arthur opens his eyes and sees Merlin sneaking out the front castle door with a lantern. The rest of their gang is fast asleep, sleeping like they were the night before only he notices Lancelot and Gwen are shuffled closer together, almost cuddling, with Lancelot’s arm swung over her body in a protective way. Arthur smiles at that. He stands up, covers himself in a brown vest of Merlin’s and, finds a lantern and follows Merlin out.

Merlin moves like a ghost in the night, cold winds blowing his cloak this way and that, and he seems like a sinister shadow in the darkness. The moon and stars are bright tonight so he can still see the sharp angles of Merlin’s face as the hood of the cloak drops. Where is he going this time of night? Arthur dreads the thought. There’s an entire life to Merlin that he’s not kept privy to and he might be out to kill someone, perhaps Morgana, for Arthur’s sake.

He should really let Merlin know he’s following him but Merlin might cover up and Arthur might never know the truth. Merlin’s been so used to keeping secrets it must be odd to not keep them strapped to his body anymore. He wonders how calloused Merlin’s hands had become by the time Arthur died, reduced to small chores and Arthur’s bidding, when he could just whisper some words and make what he needed to do done. All that power, trapped inside a body that’s been frittering away, wearing clothes too old and too worn for the magic inside it. How must it feel, fully knowing you were capable of so much more than what you were doing?

Merlin moves past the lake behind the castle and into a large clearing separated from the castle compound by a thicket of trees. Arthur hides behind one large tree as Merlin stands in the middle of the clearing, head bowed down until he musters all his strength to shout in a deep, raspy voice that Arthur doesn’t recognize –another facet of Merlin he doesn’t know– something in the ancient language. It sounds like he’s calling out for a dragon but that shouldn’t be right, all of the dragons were dead, the last one killed by Arthur almost two years ago from now, and all the Dragonlords were dead. Balinor had been the last one and he left behind no sons to pass on his legacy.

The wind around them seems to shift, something large and big coming their way, until the ominous creature lands right in front of Merlin. The silhouette is huge, big wings on the creature’s back and big yellow eyes that follow Merlin’s every step. It’s the dragon that attacked Camelot, Arthur realizes. The beast is still alive, looking the same with its grey skin and mouth that used to breathe fire and destruction all over the citadel of Camelot. Arthur almost wants to jump out from his hiding to save Merlin from this creature but, around Merlin, the dragon is calm and attentive, like a dutiful servant would act to its master.

If that’s true, then…then Merlin’s a Dragonlord. The very last Dragonlord with the very last dragon; both of them the last of their kind. Are they friends? Did they find each other through Merlin calling out  for dragons wherever he went until he finally found the last one? If they’re friends, then why would the dragon burn and threaten Camelot, Merlin’s home, after he escaped? Friends didn’t do that, surely not even dragons. Though, granted, Arthur doesn’t know very much about dragons.

“Why have you called, Merlin?” the dragon asks.

“Arthur knows,” Merlin says, both words spoken out in tremors of excitement and Arthur smiles to himself. “He knows about my magic, I don’t know how but he does and he accepts it. I think he might even be trying to change Camelot’s views on magic for me. It’s…I don’t know, I’m just so happy that I can’t want to believe most of it is true.”

For some reason, the dragon physically flinches, not quite pleased by the happy news. “The prophecies do speak of Arthur as a great king, the one who would unite Albion. Maybe this is when it starts.”

“Our destinies are finally coming true, then.”

“It would seem so, young warlock.”

“Arthur needs his sword, the one I threw into the lake. You said he would be the only one who could wield it and I believe he’s ready now. He’s more than ready.”

“I will retrieve it for you,” the dragon offers. “It’s time you get back, you will be missed by the young king.”

Merlin turns his back on the dragon, ready to go back, but he looks at him one last time, smile as bright as the moon itself and says, “Thank you for everything.”

The dragon nods, and as Merlin starts to walk back to the castle, he prepares to fly off into the night once more. Only, and this might be a stupid decision, Arthur stops him by revealing himself, yelling out, “Halt, dragon.” Truth be told, it’s not the best of plans because the dragon might just be friends with Merlin but eats other people whole but Arthur just can’t help himself.

Merlin’s gone by now, and he’ll be wondering where Arthur is next but this feels more important. The dragon isn’t telling Merlin everything he needs to know and he’s gone too far to stop protecting Merlin now.

“My Lord,” the dragon greets him and bows his head as a mark of respect.

“I…killed you, didn’t I?” Arthur asks awkwardly.

The dragon laughs aloud then. “The young warlock would like you think so, yes. But he let me go as a sign of mercy. I’ve been free ever since.”

“I…” Arthur trails off because it doesn’t matter right now. Merlin will tell him all he knows when they’re safe and sound, back in Arthur’s chambers, soon.

“Does he know, my Lord? That you’re not quite alive?” the dragon asks. Arthur looks up to him in a surprised shock, how did he know? “The Druids foretold it, sire, that you would return as a living ghost. Magic is capable of a lot of things, knowing what will happen is one of them.”

“Merlin doesn’t know. I’m not going to tell him and neither should you.”

“I’m sure you have your reasons.”

“Yes, I do, because letting him know he failed will break him.”

Whatever mission Merlin had been on, protecting Arthur with his life, following through words of old prophecies, all of that came through when Arthur died without giving Merlin what he wanted the most. Letting Merlin know that, somewhere, in another time and place, that he failed would be a greater travesty than losing Camelot.

“The prophecies you told Merlin, that I was going to be a great king,” Arthur says, “you don’t believe them, do you? I can see it.”

“Those prophecies are older than I am.. Even during the time of The Three, it was foretold you and Merlin would be born to guide us all. The Once and Future King and the greatest sorcerer known to man. Your names were yours before you were even born.”

“Maybe, but you don’t believe a single word of it,” Arthur says. “You might believe that Merlin’s a great sorcerer because he is, I’ve seen it and I can feel it when I’m around him, but you don’t believe I’d be a great king. You hated my father, why should you spare my feelings just because some ancient prophecy said so? You don’t believe in me but by playing along with Merlin, you made _him_ believe in me. More than anyone else.”

The dragon is quiet so Arthur must be on to something.

“You manipulated him, didn’t you? You fed him lies and idealistic dreams because he must’ve been a boy when he met you. Right when he got to Camelot and you used that to your advantage, didn’t you? A poor, lost, malleable boy and you gave him a lie. Do you do this often, play around with his emotions and destiny?”

“I do what I must.”

He balls up his fists because it would be futile to just hit this great creature. “Merlin became a terrifying man in my first lifetime. I can see it now, now I know, he became a symbol of anger and resentment because he never got the recognition he so _deserved_ and he was willing to forsake his kind for me. For _me_ , because he loved me. He’s still young here, he can still afford to be kind but I let him down just like I let everyone down and he became something I never wanted him to be. He became a soldier. Was that your mission, great dragon, to turn a boy into a hardened soldier with no mercy left?”

“He has what he wants now, does he not?”

“Yes but what did he have before? Me, and nothing else. Don’t do this to him again. Don’t lie to him for your own selfish reasons. If he asks you for help, which I cannot stop because you know magic better than I ever will, the only thing I ask of you is to give him the truth and honesty. Don’t let him become something I can’t protect again.”

_Let him be mine to protect._

The dragon inspects him closely, taking in all that Arthur can offer right now; his hunger and ferocity to protect, his love, his desperation to change things. He wants this to be the image the dragon carries around with him. Let him know Arthur Pendragon can be fierce and intelligent and ruthless if he challenges him again. Merlin might still be merciful and kind to the dragon but Arthur’s seen too much for that to be his own case.

“You have my word,” the dragon says, albeit a bit reluctantly.

Arthur nods to him respectfully and watches the dragon fly away, disappearing into the black night. He breathes in deeply and makes his way back to the castle and Merlin’s warm arms again. Entering the castle, he finds Merlin asleep once more and Arthur wraps his arms around his small frame, feeling every bone in his body melt at the touch of this man.

“Where were you?” Merlin asks, all sleep-fuzzy.

“Looking for you.”

“You found me.”

Arthur kisses Merlin on the cheek and holds on to him a little bit tighter. “That I did.”

In the morning, Merlin gifts him with his sword but Arthur still hasn’t forgiven the dragon.

 

Between the ten of them, there are countless bruises, burns, cuts and aches from their battles but, today, it seems everyone is  pretty much healed. Merlin’s not as useless a physician as he likes to think because he’s taken care of everyone’s wounds and they seem to be doing okay. Gwaine has praised the sticky paste Merlin instructed him to put on the bandages on his leg more than once today. He’s even made a song about it over breakfast. It’s not very good (Gwaine rhymed ‘sticky’ with ‘icky’ because he’s a lyrical genius) but Merlin appreciates the gesture.

They took their time waking up this morning, each person waking up at a different interval, with Merlin rising the earliest and going to the trees behind the castle to find berries and leaves for breakfast, and Gwen the latest, stretching out against Lancelot who was sharpening his sword. He looked down to her adoringly and she covered herself with the sleeping furs in embarrassment. Arthur thinks their cuteness is almost  nauseating but he doesn’t point it out.

Today is for resting, Arthur decides. The war hasn’t reached them yet and they have found good enough shelter to spread out on the ground and breathe in the fresh air. His people deserve today. As much as he wants his home back, it won’t be likely he’ll get back his throne with only a handful of half-healed people.

He thinks of Morgana, how she must be ruling right now and he grits his teeth. She doesn’t deserve that throne, doesn’t deserve Sir Ector hiding in her castle, or anything of it all. Arthur rationalizes it down to anger, because his blood still boils when he thinks of his sister and how it hurts too much knowing that even second chances can’t change this outcome. They were too different to really love each other yet they were too alike to hate each other.

Arthur is outside, in the fresh air, with only Merlin to keep him company. Arthur has his head on Merlin’s lap as he looks up to the sky and tries to make stories out of the clouds. He’s just about to make the cloud that looks like a terrifying beast fall in love with another fluffy shape that resembles a knight on the battlefield when Bedivere yells out their names.

“A bird from Camelot,” he explains.

Arthur and Merlin quickly enter the castle and find everyone surrounding the round table, with a piece of paper in the centre. They all look at him expectantly and Arthur takes in a deep breath. He unrolls the parchment, feeling Kay’s eyes on him because this may be a letter from Sir Ector, and reads it aloud.

“ _I hope this letter finds you and your company well, my Lord, because it has not left me in the same condition. Most of the men you left behind have reluctantly sworn fealty to your sister, as she acts as Queen Regent in your absence. It will not be hard for her to take over the entire kingdom and its neighbouring cities, not with her men behind her and Camelot’s men, as well. She has sworn that anyone who will not bow down to her will pay for it with their lives but she has not killed us yet. She keeps us in the dungeon prisons and asks her men to torture us for information on you._

_“Some of your men hide as hers and gather as much information as they can but I feel my strength leaving me, sire, I’m weak from her tortures. I don’t know how long I can take her rule without dying or betraying you. Gaius is beside me as I write this and I don’t know how much time he has left. He says Merlin’s name a lot, Merlin should know that. I hope you return soon so Gaius might see the boy before there isn’t time anymore._

_“I’ve seen her, sire, and she is a broken girl. I see the fear in her eyes but that only makes her more dangerous. Her accomplice, Morgause, only adds to the fire I can see the witch manipulating your sister, putting words into her mouth until the words become Morgana’s own. She is convinced magic users are superior and those who oppose or deny that truth are the filth of the earth. Her rage and fear are the only things left of her._

_“Return home soon, my Lord, Camelot needs you. Please tell my son I think of him. With regards, Sir Ector.”_

Around the table, there are various stages of distress and pain. Kay is beside himself and Bedivere holds onto his best friend’s arm, afraid he might fall; Gwen has her mouth covered and Lancelot has his arm around her and Merlin looks like he’s about to cry at any second. And Arthur, well, all Arthur feels is rage. He supposes he and Morgana are the same in that respect in the moment. She has taken his home and all Arthur wants is to go back.

“So we should probably start thinking of a plan, right?” Gwaine asks. “Thinking of a plan sounds mighty good right now.”

Arthur nods, snapping out of his daze and putting on his best fight face. This isn’t just about how much he wants to go home anymore, it’s about getting his people back there, too.

“We…we should assign everyone a job, so we’ll be organized,” Gwen supplies, anxiety still ridden on her face from losing her best friend but there’s strength there, too. “We don’t have much time but we’ll have to make do.”

“Gwen, you should stay here, this battle is no place for a woman,” Arthur says.

Gwen rolls her eyes and groans. “Yes, because women can’t fight.”

“Just like women can’t, you know, _overtake Camelot_ ,” Elyan supplies. “It’s all or nothing, Arthur, I’m not leaving without my sister and I’ll bet that Lancelot won’t either, and you need us.”

Arthur nods. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“We need some more of those explosives we used,” Elyan suggests. “We can plant a trail of it in the castle, someone just needs to light it up. Merlin, you still have the stuff we used for those?”

“Some,” Merlin says, “not enough to rig the entire castle, though.”

“We probably don’t need to, just at a few key places,” Leon says. “To have a distraction to let our men out of the prisons and do a little damage. We can handle the rest.”

“It’s going to be a long day if we’re going to be making those bombs with just the few of us,” Merlin says.

 _It’s going to be a long day no matter what_ , Arthur thinks. It has been far too long already that Morgana has sat comfortably on his throne. A few days is more than enough for her to wreak havoc with his beloved kingdom and, in a few more when the ten of them are ready to strike, who knows what other horrors Morgana has thrust upon the citadel? Sir Ector’s letter was vague but Arthur dreads to think of how Morgana is ruling his kingdom, with so much anger in her body until it has become her blood.

There’s a nod of agreement around the table and that’s the last thing they all acknowledge because it starts. The shadow of war that has been sitting so comfortably on their shoulders has grown in strength and number, making every word out of their mouth only battle strategies and plans instead of friendly gestures and sayings of love. They have grown too comfortable in this castle of theirs, where the shouts of war have not reached them, but they all realize that this will end soon. The salvation of being kept safe in this castle, away from the eyes of battle, will leave them as soon as they don their weapons and find their hands ready to be bruised in a fight.

The next two days are filled with harsh whispers, hands on Camelot’s maps to trace their best chance, the sounds of swords clashing against one another in training; recognition that they have become soldiers whether they wanted to be or not, covering their faces with heavy cloaks when they go into the nearest occupied town to look for more materials and not making a sound when the townspeople talk about Morgana’s rule and how much she changed. It’s filled with sleepless nights thinking of home –for some of them, their homes were destroyed, like Percival and Lancelot, but they think of Camelot, too, hoping things will be better there- and desperate touches because they don’t know which one will be their last; with dried scraps of food because they’re running out of supplies and afternoons that are getting colder.

They have to do something, Arthur thinks, as the chill of the day has started to freeze the lake they once jumped into happily. Winter is almost upon them and they’re getting antsy. Arthur can see the desperation in his friends and how much they need to get home or find another one. He blames himself for their unhappiness because he wasn’t strong enough to stay in the citadel. Morgana wouldn’t have become Queen Regent if Arthur was still in the city somewhere. The people would be loyal to him and know he would return to them. He wonders what the people are saying now. What if they think he’s abandoned them? He can’t let them down.

It’s night now, there are more than a dozen bombs that they’ve made and they’ve all packed the weapons they’ve nicked into a bag to give to the whichever of the men that have been imprisoned. There’s an ominous silence hanging over all of them but also a kind of solemn acceptance. It’s time.

After dinner, Arthur gathers all ten of them around the round table.

“Come everyone, sit,” he says.

Merlin sits to his right and Gwen to his left, with Lancelot next to her, while others take their place around the table. It wouldn’t be fitting to cry right now, not even a little, but when he sees the people he loves sitting around this table again, he thinks about how many were left after the fighting was done. More than half of them didn’t see Arthur to his end but, here, now, they all sit around like it’s a campfire and they’re a family. And they _are_ a family, Arthur realizes.

“This round table was used by the ancient kings of Camelot. It afforded no one man more importance than any other. They believed in equality of all things. It seems right that we bring back this tradition,” Arthur says. “Without each and every one of you, nobleborn or not, man or woman, skilled or not, we would not have survived. I owe all of you my life.”

They smile to themselves, knowing it’s a truth for them, too.

“Tomorrow, we make our stand for Camelot and it would do me the great honour of fighting alongside you.”

“As if we’d let you do this on your own,” Kay speaks up. “Camelot’s our home, too.”

He stands up then, strong and stubborn, and Bedivere follows. Soon, everyone follows his lead, smiling at Arthur and at each other, until Merlin is the only one left sitting. Figures.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks with a knowing smile.

Merlin smiles back and stands. “I’m only doing this for the hot men,” he says jokingly but he’s holding Arthur’s hand under the table.

 

They set off at dawn, the remnants of the late night still showing in the skies. They’re all in plainclothes, things that were packed from Camelot or stolen from the nearby villages. Arthur feels odd without his chainmail and armour but it was left behind in Camelot and he has to make do. He’s dressed in a white tunic with a brown vest, breeches that pull in a little at crotch –he’s fully convinced that Merlin picked out these breeches for that very reason- but sturdy nonetheless, with his own black boots. He doesn’t look like a soldier, in fact none of them do, but that doesn’t change their mission.

They packed all their weapons and bombs and loaded them onto the horses Leon is riding. There are six horses among them so they all have to share and Merlin takes the reins on Arthur’s horse. It’s a short journey from the ruined castle to Camelot but it feels long, with the silence around them. Soon enough, they find themselves in the woods they were in that first night.

The plan is to subtly lay down a string of the bombs on the ground, from the entrance to the passageway to the main dungeon. It won’t be that much of a distance but they should be able to take out enough of Morgana’s men there so they can safely lead out the prisoners out of their cells and into the fight. Elyan would be placed away from the explosives but close enough for him to shoot an arrow lit with fire to set off the bombs when Gwen gives the signal from the warning bell on the top of the main tower, high enough to see everything he needs to see and to not be seen himself. From there on out, it should start a riot.

Leon, Elyan, Bedivere, Kay and Gwaine hop off their horses with their supplies.

“Good luck,” Arthur says to his men.

“And to you, Princess.” Gwaine nods.

Arthur and his remaining men ride on until they reach a small forest behind the main tower of Camelot. They leave their horses behind and walk on until Arthur sees a few guards on the balcony of the tower, fully armed with swords and arrows. Without another word, Gwaine shoots them in the chest with a few arrows and a bow stolen from the castle. As soon as they’re down, only he and Gwen walk towards the tower door. Through the door, there’ll be a staircase leading to the topmost level of the tower, where Gwen will signal each time something of note happens and Gwaine will be there to protect her and throw off anyone who messes with their plans.

This leaves Arthur, Merlin, Percival and Lancelot to run around the tower until they reach the castle courtyard. They’ll try to find out where Morgana and Morgause are so Merlin and Arthur can confront them. To Arthur’s surprise, there aren’t a lot of guards around the courtyard and palace steps but Arthur screams out a deafening, “For Camelot!” anyway, to feel his blood pumping before he clashes his sword down on the first man that battles him.

“Where is she?” Percival asks one man, bloodied by his fist.

“T-throne room,” the man manages to say before blood splutters out of his mouth.

He’s always known Percival to be a sweet, gentle soul with eyes as innocent as a deer but prowess like a lion. All in all, he was a nice lad, always sparing lives where he could but, right now, he’s someone Arthur doesn’t know. It must’ve been something to do with being a fugitive for days, having to eat on scraps and sleep on the floor of a dusty castle; with pent-up rage as Camelot was ravaged, seeing a kingdom ruled by a tyrant like his was. Percival takes no prisoners, snaps the necks of guards in their way and, by the time all the men have fallen in the courtyard, his hands and face are bloodied. This is a bloodthirsty warrior with such ferocity Arthur has never seen and he’s frightened.

He stops being so alarmed when they reach the castle and Percival stops to look himself in the window. He must’ve seen what he looked like then, with the blood of other men decorating his face, like a beast in human skin.

“I’m sorry, sire,” he says, his voice cracked, “They killed my family.”

Arthur grips him on the shoulder, reassuring him. This poor lad has known nothing but violence for months.

“You and Lancelot guard the gates and courtyard,” Arthur tells him. “Merlin and I are going to the throne room.”

When they reach the throne room with only a few scraps and bruises, Merlin squeezes Arthur’s hands before they open the double doors. There she is, with Morgause by her side, sitting on his throne.

At first glance, it seems like she’s wearing the black dress she wore in his first lifetime, sewed in lace and criss-crossed along the bodice but there’s one distinct difference. In between the stitches of black is red fabric sewed into the dress. Black and red, like her banner, but Arthur has to wonder. Is the red meant to symbolize the Pendragon colour? Is it a dark omen, the bastard child of the Pendragon dynasty trying to steal back her throne from those who wronged her?

“Arthur,” she says, finally noticing him. “And Merlin. Well, I wouldn’t have expected it any other way.”

“I’ve come to take back my throne,” Arthur says, trying not let her see his fear.

“The throne you’ve earned or the one you’ve inherited?”

“Funny,” Arthur says, “because you could ask yourself the same question.”

It’s a silly taunt, poking fun, but Arthur can see how much that hurt her. In his past lifetime, Morgana took what she thought belonged to her with blood and wrath and fire, carefully calculated displays of violence and, without realizing, Arthur took that from her. No one would tell her that she earned this throne. For all the people knew, this throne is inheritance and all she needed to do was kill Arthur off to get it.

History is made of usurpers and now Morgana isn’t even that. She’s just a reserve player.

“Do it,” Morgana tells Morgause.

Merlin’s quick on reflexes because at the same time Morgause raises her hand to cast a spell, Merlin’s eyes turn effortlessly golden right in front of him. Morgana stops her sister by putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Well, this is a surprise,” she says. “Well, maybe not. I’ve always thought Arthur was too much like his father.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, despite himself.

“Uther kept sorcerers by his side sometimes, too. The only magic that could be used was the one that helped him. That was a form of hypocrisy, don’t you think, brother?”

“I’m different.”

“You really aren’t. Things would go a lot smoother if you would stop trying to deny that.”

Both Morgana and Morgause’s eyes grow golden before him and they throw Arthur and Merlin in opposite directions in the room. Arthur hits the wall, causing him to bleed from his head and a bone or two to crack. Merlin, however, just bounces back up. It must be the immortality thing, fast reflexes and adjustment period and all that. He raises his hand and whispers a spell, causing Morgause to choke and lose her breath.

It’s like there’s an invisible hand on her throat and Morgause is scratching at her neck, trying to get it to stop but it’s futile. Merlin’s killing her. Merlin turns to Morgana now and backs her up to throne, where she raises her hand to cast another spell but Merlin stops her by gripping tight on her wrist. She tries to get away but there must be something in Merlin’s grip; so strong and magical, that she can’t.

Merlin gets out one of the knives they nicked from the castle and aims it to Morgana’s face but she’s struggling and moving, too eager to get away and back to her sister and the knife slashes the right side of her face with a long scar, from her eyebrow to her upper lip. Merlin looks like he’s in regret, like the plan was never to kill her after all and Morgana takes the moment to push him off with her magic and run back to Morgause, who is clutching at nothing for air. While Morgana and Morgause are preoccupied, Merlin looks at Arthur, his eyes still golden and it almost terrifies Arthur, and mouths, “Hide.”

So he does. He staggers to his feet and hides behind in one of the arches that lead to other rooms. He falls to the floor, clutching his arm that still hurts from the impact of being flung to the wall and turns his head to find Merlin. He looks so terrifying and awe-inspiring, like something no one can touch. Something ethereal and ruthless, like a nature spirit that threatens to burn your home down for disrespecting the trees.

Morgause collapses from the lack of air and her eyes close. “Sister,” Morgana yells and runs to her side.

“Why are you doing this, Morgana? This place used to be your home, we used to be your friends, and you’ve come back to destroy us.”

“You poisoned me, Merlin. I lay there, scared and frightened and terrified, not knowing what was happening and you tried to kill me. You tried to kill me, like I was an animal you could get rid of once I became a nuisance. Even Arthur, I was kind to him and loved him, but he tossed me away. The only person who hasn’t openly betrayed me is Gwen but I’m sure she will, too,” Morgana says, the blood from her forehead slowly trickling down the side of her face, making her look like a grotesque painting of a beautiful woman. “I never had any friends, Merlin, not really. Morgause is my friend, my real family, the only person who loves me for exactly who I am.”

Arthur can feel the kingdom shake from the trembling of Morgana’s hands, as if she is commanding whole earths to open up and swallow all of them whole.

“Camelot will be my home once again, Merlin,” Morgana vows. “I swear to you, I will come to take it back from my brother’s weak hands.”

The entire castle seems to fall from its very towers and stones and bricks and glass fall from the floor following Morgana’s rage. there are screams and yelling, searching hands in the destruction, but, as the rubble subsides, there isn’t any sign of Morgana and Morgause. Disappeared into the destruction.

Merlin’s hands finally find his and they pull him up, bringing him into a strong embrace and Arthur temporarily forgets his pain.

“We should go down to the dungeons,” Arthur says, breaking their silence. Merlin nods and takes his hand in his.

The walk is silent, as they see that most of Morgana’s men have fled from the scene –their allegiance was paid, after all, and, when the gold stops, so does the fighting. The others that remain loyal to the black-and-red banner are taken hostage or killed. The castle is a little bit broken wherever they set their eyes. It’s either from the explosives or Morgana’s tremors, the sight of dead bodies or the blood on the walls. The bells have finally stopped ringing by the time they get to the dungeon and Arthur isn’t prepared to see what’s there.

Dozens of dead bodies, black cloaks and red cloaks, piled on each other and, in the midst of it all, Kay is sitting down on the ground, with his father next to him, but his arms are wrapped around Bedivere. Bedivere’s bloody and Arthur sees why. His right hand has been cut clean off his wrist –his sword hand. His eyes are closing and he’s mumbling Kay’s name all the while. How must it feel like, Arthur wonders, to have your name be the one thing the dying remember?

“Beddy, you idiot,” Kay is saying, cradling his best friend’s head.

Merlin rushes to his side and wraps bandages over Bedivere’s right wrist and all his attention is on this wounded man until Leon comes out of one of the cells and says his name. “Merlin,” he calls out, but soft and warring like the battle isn’t over yet. “It’s Gaius.”

Arthur follows Merlin into the cell because he doesn’t want Merlin to be alone for this, but he stands in the doorway to give them some space. Next to Gaius, who looks worn and torn and broken, his robes in such disarray and his face decorated with blood and grime, Merlin looks a child. He even looks up to his guardian that way, eyes so big with hope and desperation, with his bottom lip trembling. Merlin holds Gaius’ hands and Arthur can hear every breath in dungeon hitch. Gaius has seen most of them through their births and their adolescence until they were men and women grown. He was this unchanging entity that looked over all the children of Camelot and treated their wounds.

Now none of those children can heal his.

“I remember that bumbling idiot that walked into my chambers all those years ago,” Gaius says, his voice broken yet still thriving to tell his final words. “Who would’ve known?”

Merlin is rambling now, talking at fast speeds through his tears. “Gaius, I can heal you, please let me do something. I can’t lose you, not now, I need you. Please let me do something.”

“My boy,” Gaius smiles at this beautiful boy, tears already rolling down his cheeks, “you’ve done more than enough.”

“Gaius,” Merlin chokes out.

Gaius wipes away a tear on Merlin’s face with his hand until that hand drops to his side and his eyes close for the last time.

 

Arthur walks into the new physician’s quarters three days after they’ve taken back Camelot. Gaius’s chambers are still intact, all of his potions and books are still there, but the new physician –a middle-aged redheaded man named Ambrose from the Northern Plains who studied with Gaius when he was younger- was forced to move his services to the main tower. Merlin hasn’t said much but he said that Gaius’s quarters weren’t to be disturbed and Arthur’s not in the position to question a grieving man.

Kay is, as always, sitting by Bedivere’s bedside. Arthur hasn’t seen Kay in a while, there haven’t been any training sessions for him to see Kay at, not while they’re dealing with people coming back in the city and the  restorations hat had to be done in several parts of the castle from the battle. All of them have been trying to get back to normalcy, making sure their homes and people are intact, always in motion, but Kay hasn’t left this room since Bedivere was brought in. According to Ambrose, he washes and changes here, talks to Bedivere here and, at night, sleeps in the chair next to his best friend’s bed.

“Wart,” Kay says when he sees him. “Good to see you. I nearly forgot what you looked like.”

“Oh, you know, blonde, strapping and handsome,” Arthur says. He looks at Bedivere, so small and helpless on the bed. “How is he?”

“He’s going to live, Ambrose says, but it’s not going to be the same. He lost his sword hand, Arthur, a knight is nothing without his sword hand,” Kay says. “He won’t be going on quests anymore or…”

“I don’t know about that,” Arthur says. “If anyone can overcome any kind of injury, it’s Bedivere. He’s as stubborn as you are, sometimes, he’ll probably start learning how to swing a sword with his right hand just to prove a point.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Kay laughs. Pause. “How’s Merlin?”

Arthur sighs and sits down on another chair next to Kay. “I don’t know. He hasn’t said much since it happened, he’s like a ghost.”

“Let him grieve, Arthur. Losing a parent is hard, you and I both know that but he’ll come back to you soon, I know it. I haven’t seen anyone more in love with another person since Gwaine discovered himself.”

Arthur laughs at that and smiles fondly at how Kay and Gwaine have become good friends. They’re too alike to be kept in the same room but they keep gravitating towards each other, anyway.

“How are the others?” Kay asks. “Good, I hope. I haven’t left this room in days and I only pay attention to their visits for so long until I get worried about Bed again.”

Arthur tells him everyone is well, because they are. Gwen and Lancelot are still chaste in their touches, like the other is ice and too fragile to touch, but their smiles are honest and adoring. Percival has, apparently, found himself a second home in the kitchen because he can bake and the kitchen wenches fawn over him like he’s a baby deer; Gwaine is still Gwaine, though, sometimes he loses his train of thought and looks more war-torn than all of them combined; Leon is still commanding the knights, acting as their de facto leader while Arthur is trying to rebuild the city, and Elyan’s become the townspeople’s favourite because he constantly checks up on them and is kinder than most.

“They’ve all been knighted, too. Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival and Elyan,” Arthur supplies.

Kay lets out a breathy laugh. “Well, fuck me, things really are changing, aren’t they, Wart?”

“Hopefully not everything.”

Arthur smiles at him and gets up to leave. He’s halfway out the door when Kay asks, “Aren’t you scared, Wart?” Arthur turns around. “I mean, Morgana’s still alive out there. Who’s to say she won’t come back and do this all over again?”

“No one,” Arthur says honestly. “She might come back but I’m not going to spend the days until then looking over my shoulder. We can’t stop living just because we’re scared. All we can do is to make sure, if she comes back, we don’t underestimate her.”

Kay nods at him and he leaves him be.

Arthur returns to his chambers, as the afternoon sun pours through the windows. The months of winter are upon them and Arthur can feel the chill as the wind blows into the room. If he looks out the windows, he’ll see the towers and building of the citadel capped in snow, a picturesque vision of winter. On the bed, Merlin is sitting up for once. Lately, whenever Arthur has finished his duties for the day and come back to his room, he’s always found Merlin curled up onto his side. Arthur never says anything when that happens, he just wraps his arms around Merlin and kisses his cheek, letting him know he’s there.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks.

“I’m ready to talk now,” is all Merlin says.

Arthur sits down on the bed across from him. “About what?”

“About everything,” Merlin says. “About my magic and my childhood, and all the things I’ve done for you, all the things I’ve hidden.. I want you to know everything, now that you know my biggest secret.”

Arthur smiles at him and kisses him on the mouth for the first time in days. He’s almost forgotten what Merlin tastes like. “Okay.”

So he sits back and lets Merlin talk, only asking questions at intervals. Merlin tells him that his magic started when he was young –a babe, according to his mother, because she kept saying how his eyes were golden before they were ever blue- and it’s been a part of him ever since. He was born a few years after the Great Purge, so Hunith knew the consequences of having a son with magic and told young Merlin that he was not to be telling anyone in their little village. Will had found out, of course, because he was Will and his eyes always looked over to Merlin –to see if he was smiling at his joke, or quiet in thought, or falling down due to his clumsiness. There was no way Will wouldn’t have found out and there was no way Merlin wouldn’t have told him when it came to it, and they spent years after that honing Merlin’s magic to the best of their ability.They weren’t very good at it; no one in the village knew about magic very much and it was taboo to even speak of it, but they did, somehow, find a way to make Merlin’s magic grow strawberries out of anything red.

When he was nineteen, Hunith grew too worried for her son and sent him to Camelot. She didn’t tell him until he came back to Ealdor but, before he was sent to Camelot, he kept having nightmares and visions that made every candle in the house blow out as he commanded huge gusts of wind in his sleep. She was scared that he might be discovered and knew that a small house for such big power was never a thing to keep. Arthur kept trying to imagine Merlin as a child, running around Ealdor’s woods and causing trouble with Will as his magic grew inside of him, but only saw the Merlin in front of him. He’s engrossed nonetheless. Occasionally, the servants come in to serve them food but Merlin continues talking and Arthur keeps listening. They move in languid motions, eating and talking, drinking and asking, little touches and small laughs.

The stories from Camelot were easier to keep up with, once Merlin arrived in Camelot, Arthur can almost see the scenes playing out, as Merlin ran through stairs and steps in his mission to protect Arthur’s life. The visions were vivid, as Merlin went on about how he met the dragon in the dungeons below, and saved Arthur from a myriad of spells and curses that would’ve killed him if Merlin wasn’t there. Some of the tales were grand and extravagant, adventures woven into their lives that Arthur was never fully aware of. He’d been living in a song all this time, with a guardian angel to protect him. When Merlin tells him of the little blue light in the cave, Arthur can’t take it anymore and presses his lips against Merlin’s.

Merlin laughs against his lips and Arthur can taste his happiness. They fall back into the bed after that, lying on their sides, as Merlin retells everything to the best of his ability. As he recounts his stories, Arthur’s hand trail all over Merlin’s body. Against his chest to feel his laughter when something funny happens, a strong, reassuring grip on his shoulder as he tells him about Morgana, which breaks his heart even more and even, momentarily, makes him want to hate Merlin a bit before he smiles again; his thumb against the corner of his mouth to feel the tender skin as the stories get lazy and the night draws near and on his cheek to wipe away his tears as Merlin tells Arthur about Freya and his father not too long afterwards.

Arthur watches as Merlin’s face changes with each story, through the sadness and strife, happiness and short-lived laughter, but, underneath it all, there’s a freedom in Merlin’s eyes. His muscles relax and his eyes soften. How long he must’ve dreamed of this, to sit and tell these tales to the one who deserved to hear it the most, without worry or hatred swimming around them. He sees Merlin change, from the person that left Arthur at that shore a lifetime ago to the person Arthur wishes he noticed the first time around.

“Arthur, can I ask you something?’ Merlin asks, his eyes barely open. It’s night now and Merlin’s told him enough.

“Yes, of course you can.”

“If you loved me then, why wasn’t I the one who broke the lovespell?”

Arthur kisses him on the brow and answers, “Because the will of wanting something to be can be very powerful, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less forced.”

Merlin smiles then and closes his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

  
_“I made this place for you._

_A place for you to love me._

_If this isn’t a kingdom then I don’t know what is.”_

 - Richard Siken

 

As soon as Bedivere’s well enough to stand and walk around, Arthur convenes a small meeting, only between the ten of them that escaped Camelot when Morgana assumed the throne. They sit around a larger replica of the round table found in that ancient castle. Most of the lads are dressed in chainmail, except for Merlin who hasn’t given up his servant garb because he’s a stubborn mule despite the fact he’s practically the unofficial consort to the king, and Elyan, who never dons chainmail unless completely necessary because he still feels he doesn’t belong. Since they’ve gotten back, Gwen’s been dressed in frocks lovelier than her servant clothes because she knows as well as Arthur does that Arthur is preparing her for court when the time comes and she’s decided to look the part. It doesn’t mean she still doesn’t look a bit uncomfortable in her current dress of pastel green with silver embroidery.

The mannerisms of court and ceremonies will be hard for those who are new to it. He made them fully aware of it before they knighted the men and told Gwen of her new duties and they made sure that they were going to be by his side, helping to build his kingdom.

“You’re probably wondering why I gathered you all today,” Arthur says.

“That line is getting old, Arthur, you gather us altogether every other day,” Gwaine says. “Last week, we were gathered to throw snowballs at each other.”

“To mark the coming of winter. It’s a Camelot tradition.”

“For the children of Camelot, Arthur,” Gwen says, laughing quietly.

“Anyway,” Arthur sighs, not saying that partaking in the winter tradition was Merlin’s idea. “The ten of us are the only ones that know of Merlin’s magic and, with peace finally settling on Camelot once again, I bring up the discussion of repealing the ban on magic that was instigated by my late father.”

There’s a myriad of sounds made around the table; some of excitement because they’ve all been learning more and more of Merlin’s magic these past few weeks and know he’s a good man with powerful magic, but others are laced with worry, scared this might bring about more enemies. He’s thought about this to great lengths while Merlin sleeps at night, knowing it won’t be easy but it has to be done.

“I open the floor to discussion,” Arthur says.

“Arthur, are you sure you want to do this? Merlin’s important to all of us but this might bring up demons we’re not yet ready to face,” Leon says.

“I want to do this, I’m sure. It’s not just because of Merlin,” Arthur looks at him now, locking eyes with the man he loves. “It’s because I know this is right. My father’s stance on magic was harsh and unnecessary. It was lined with hypocrisy and selfishness, costing hundreds of deaths that we could have done without. Families have been torn apart by this war my father waged across the lands and I will not let it continue. However, it should not be right to think of my father as a villain or forsake all of his teachings because he did keep peace, for the most part, during his rule but he is no longer reigning. I love my father with all my heart but I need to learn to make my own decisions without his shadow hanging over my head. I am my father’s son and I wear the Pendragon crest proudly. My father did what he thought was right, as I am doing now. Whatever comes next is what I deserve for making this choice.”

He looks around the table and sees all of them smiling, but Merlin is close to tears.

“Well, in that case,” Lancelot speaks up, “we’re going to have long day ahead of us.”

He’s right, of course, they spend the rest of that day discussing what they should do first to make this dream come true, each of them giving useful advice. They point out things Arthur would’ve otherwise overlooked and call Arthur out on his shit when his head is getting big and Arthur decides he couldn’t found a better team to help build his kingdom from the ground up. They decide to stop actively seeking out magic users and those found guilty of crimes conducted by their magic are to be put on a fair and just trial. Magic users are to be treated like any other citizen in Camelot, given the same rights to the same government that bears no extra weight on either side of the spectrum. For now, magic on its own is not a crime punishable by death.

It will be a few months for this new rule to sink in and probably a couple more until the people start believing it but it’ll be worth it. It’s decided that, sooner or later, Arthur and Merlin will personally travel to some of the most important kingdoms in the realm and urge their rulers to follow the repeal and apologize to the rulers that have actively been hurt by the ban on magic. It will be a mark of friendship and, hopefully, it will make enemies like them a little bit more than they have in the past.

After the meeting, Merlin doesn’t wait two seconds after they enter their chambers –theirs now, theirs forever- before he pushes Arthur against the wall and kisses the life out of him. Arthur moans into his mouth as he lets his legs fall open so Merlin can slit in between them, his groin pushing against Arthur’s hardening cock.

“Is all this ‘repealing the ban on magic’ talk turning you on?” Arthur smiles as Merlin’s lips move down and begins sucking a bruise on the tender skin of his neck. “Because, I’m telling you, if that’s the case, you’re going to have a hard-on for years to come.”

“I never expected it any other way,” Merlin laughs.

 

The next day, both Merlin and Gwen follow him into the council meetings with the old lords of the kingdom. Merlin, as always, stands behind him, acting as his servant even though there have been loud talks about the true nature of their relationships being brought all around the citadel, but Gwen stands behind an empty chair. She looks the bravest kind of terrified and Arthur has to swallow his pride for her.

Arthur looks around the table and clears his throat. “Sirs, I ask you to give Guinevere her rightful place in council.”

Lord Brom looks so shocked that Arthur’s almost afraid he’s going to fall over right then and there. “But, sire, she is a woman, and a servant!”

“Then which one offends you more, my lord?” Arthur smiles sweetly at him. “That she is capable of giving life, or that she knows the inner workings of this palace better than you?”

He then takes great satisfaction in seeing Lord Brom flush deep crimson as Sir Leon helps Guinevere to her seat.

That meeting and countless other meetings in that week consists of Arthur telling how he wishes to start the new era of Camelot and the lords fighting over certain points, voices raised over each other and hands slamming down on the table. It took some convincing for the council to even concede on this matter because, when people are so used to living one way, it’s hard to start living in another. These people are elderly, old enough to remember a time before the Great Purge, but they’ve been living under Uther’s rule for so long that they don’t even blink anymore before ordering an execution on an innocent person.

Soon, they begin to see reason and even begin to listen to Gwen’s advice. She has a way of calming them that Arthur hasn’t mastered them and giving rational answers to all their questions and demands. It’s the touch of a woman, Arthur realizes, that’s what has been missing in Camelot’s court.

Winter is spent regaining the people’s trust, smiling at the disbelief of people’s faces when they have been pardoned of all their magical crimes, long discussions around his Round Table and kissing in the snow. It’s spent worrying about whispers of Morgana’s name that might not have any ring of truth to it, seeing Gwen and Lancelot finally digging up the courage to admit their relationship to their friends, finally making Merlin sit next to him at meetings and picking out his new clothes for court, kissing his nose and cheek when he dons a perfect shade of deep bruised blue under a black jacket; seeing Merlin become –slowly but surely- his own person outside of Arthur and his doings and Arthur practically glowing from the happiness of it all. Winter is for bringing back the peace in Camelot.

As the snow melts and the flowers start to bloom, Arthur decides spring will be for bringing the peace to others. He tells Merlin on the second day of spring that they will be making for Nemeth in the morning and he agrees.

 

Nemeth is a made of a cluster of buildings and towers all clumped together on a big piece of land. It’s surrounded by rich forests and crops, the whole kingdom smelling of spring as they ride into the gates of the main city. Nemeth is known for their crops, their bright fruits and vegetables grown year-round, and houses people with manners and wits about them. It’s one of the most stable kingdoms in the realm and Arthur doesn’t know why he hasn’t spent enough time here. Their banners and flags fly high on top of the towers and bridges, a blue eagle on a brown backdrop, and the knights and guards wear the same colours.

Arthur has travelled from Camelot with, of course, Merlin beside him acting as an advisor and a few other familiar faces. Gwen is riding to his left, with Percival next to him, and surrounding them are three score of their finest guards to act as an envoy. They are to be welcomed by King Rodor himself and the rest of the royal family. It’ll be good to see Mithian, there’s always been a fine space in his heart for her beauty and charm, along with the rest of her family. She has a stepmother, a Queen Selyne, and a half-brother, Sam.

As they make their way through the main city, they’re greeted with smiles and waves from the people. Some of them even throw flowers and fruits for them to catch and Merlin succeeds in catching a peach which he proceeds to eat.

“Gods, this peach is good,” Merlin says, moaning a bit as he licks the juice of the fruit from his lips. Arthur suppresses the fact that he wants to lick Merlin’s lips, too. “Why aren’t our crops this good?”

“Well maybe this peace treaty might allow you to have more of those fruits,” Arthur says. The juice drips down his front. “And make more of a slob of yourself.”

“You like that I’m a slob.”

“That has never been true.”

“Boys,” Gwen says.

Arthur and Merlin smile. “Sorry, Mother,” Merlin says, sticking out his tongue.

Luckily, they’re far enough from the Nemeth envoy that they don’t see Merlin’s behaviour. He can see them as they come in closer. They’ve all assembled –the royal family with its guard and some of the household servants and squires- in a large courtyard. Behind the party is a large tower, built of bricks, some already brown and black from age. They’re almost nothing like the pristine ivory towers of Camelot but there’s a beauty in it, as well. Arthur sees that the tower is connected to another behind it by a long bridge. To his left and right are big buildings, small castles in its own right, built in the same fashion as the tower.

The Camelot envoy parts in a sea of red and gold so Arthur, Merlin, Gwen and Percival can step forward to greet the royal family. The four of them dismount and the Nemeth people bow their heads as a mark of respect, with the ladies giving a small curtsy as is tradition. Mithian still looks the same as when he first met her, only she must be younger here, her brown hair let down in a wave of curls framing a youthful, pretty face. King Rodor steps forward, dressed in chainmail and the Nemeth colours.

“King Arthur of Camelot, we welcome you to Nemeth,” he says, extending an arm for him to shake and Arthur takes it with a smile. “Might I introduce my family? This is my queen, Selyne,” a woman with red hair and friendly face, “my son, Samuel,” a boy no more than ten with his mother’s hair and freckles spotting his nose, “and my eldest, Mithian.”

Arthur kisses her hand and she smiles at him. This is the time to make as many friends as he can and he has a feeling Mithian will be a good one to keep.

“These are the most trusted people of my court, Merlin, son of Balinor, Guinevere Thomas and Sir Percival, along with some of our finest men,” Arthur says though he yearns for the day he can introduce Merlin as his consort. “Thank you for agreeing to talk with us under terms of peace.”

“Peace is something we all strive for,” King Rodor says, “and I must say, your new outlook on magic intrigues me. It’s very different from your father’s.”

“A discussion to have later, Your Highness,” Arthur says with a smile.

“Of course, you and your party must be tired from your journey. Our servants will show you to your chambers. We will convene again at night, yes?”

“I’m looking forward to it, sire.”

Camelot’s entire party is escorted into the building on the right, but their guard stays on the lower floor while Arthur, Merlin, Gwen and Percival are led further upstairs to much grander chambers.

“This place is beautiful,” Gwen says and it really is. The top floor has a curved roof above them and there are dozens of paintings and inscriptions on the walls. It’s big and open, with windows everywhere so the cool, spring winds greet them and there’s such a space around them that it makes Arthur want to explore every inch of the castle just with his friends and a lantern.

“Rest, I’m sure you’re tired,” Arthur says.

Gwen and Percival nod and retire to their own chambers. Merlin scoots closer to him and wraps an arm around his waist.

“You’re not really that tired, are you?” Merlin asks, rubbing circles around Arthur’s hip. They’ve spent two days on the road, cramped into tents and too tired every night to go beyond their customary goodnight kisses. Arthur misses feeling the full weight of Merlin on him, his lips on other places other than his face.

“You’re insatiable,” Arthur says. After making sure no one is around, he pulls Merlin close to kiss him full on the mouth.

“You love it.”

Merlin’s things were put in the chambers next to Arthur’s but they pay no attention to that and gracelessly nter Arthur’s room instead. The room is large, almost as large as his own chambers, but there is a lot more space here. There’s only a bed with rich furnishings, with a table on the left and a fire that’s been stoked at the fireplace at one side of the room.

Arthur pulls Merlin in and kisses him, soft and chaste at first until Merlin decides that’s not enough and it becomes something else entirely. Merlin wraps his legs around Arthur’s waist and Arthur carries him straight to the bed. They fall back onto bed with a laugh and Arthur kisses the smile right off Merlin’s face. There’s something about kissing Merlin when he’s happy and pliant like this, like he tastes happier, too.

“I want-” Merlin starts then finds himself preoccupied with trying to take Arthur’s tunic off.

“What do you want, love?”

“I want to ride you.”

They strip their clothes in between kisses until they’re naked and sweaty and desperate. Merlin lies back across from Arthur and grabs at the vial of oil Arthur takes out of his pack. Without any warning, Merlin coats his own fingers in the oil and pushes one into his entrance. Seeing Merlin stretching himself like this is one of Arthur’s greatest treasures, his body writhing and the flush spreading up his skin as he prepares himself for Arthur. Arthur gives his cock a few cursory strokes until it’s fully hard as Merlin pushes back against his own fingers.

“Enough,” Arthur says and Merlin nods.

Merlin straddles his hips, kisses Arthur –not quite on the mouth, he’s too lost in desire for that- before guiding his cock into his entrance. Merlin’s tight, they haven’t done this in a while and Arthur isn’t prepared for the long stretch of it as Merlin slowly sinks down onto his cock. When he’s fully seated, Merlin lets out a choked gasp.

Arthur feels his toes curl just from being inside Merlin, it’s been too long and too goo,d too fast but when Merlin brings himself up only to push back against his cock, Arthur feels his breath punch out of him. Lovely, wanton thing, Arthur thinks, and you’re mine.

They build a steady rhythm until Arthur’s tired of the laziness and thrusts up his hips, almost unseating Merlin. Merlin gets it and works himself over Arthur’s cock, pushing back and clenching around him like a vice. Whatever Merlin’s doing, it’s completely unravelling Arthur and he can’t even say a more coherent warning than a loud, “Fuck,” before he’s coming inside of Merlin. He tries to keep his eyes open to see the way Merlin’s mouth falls open in orgasm but, through the aftershocks of his pleasure, can only feel Merlin come all around his cock and onto his stomach.

Merlin collapses on top of him in a shaky breath and Arthur laughs. “Missed you,” Arthur says.

“I’ve always been here.” Merlin gets off him, Arthur giving a small whine as his cock leaves Merlin’s body. He doesn’t even bother to clean them up, they’ve got hours before dinner.

“You know what I mean.”

Merlin lies down next to him and spreads his come all over Arthur’s abdomen. It gives Arthur a shiver of pleasure, knowing Merlin wants to mark him like this. “Well, I’m sorry, sire. I’ve been busy dealing with courtly…things. I’m still not sure about the correct vernacular.”

“You’re getting good at that, Merlin, I’m very proud,” Arthur says. “Courtly things.”

“I can’t tell if that’s meant to be condescending or not.”

“Not,” Arthur says softly. “You belong by my side, Merlin. It’s just good to see you actually adjusting to it.”

“It’s not much of a difference, is it?” Merlin asks. “I mean, I gave you counsel even before you became king and the sex is still amazing. I’ve refused your offer to get me a personal servan about a dozen times because I don’t need one and I like taking care of you. I just have better clothes. And, even then, I can do without them.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Not like that.” Merlin slaps his arm. “I’m happy to be by your side, whatever the situation.”

“Does that mean you’ll reconsider my offer?” Arthur asks hopefully.

Merlin sits up then and exhales deeply. “Arthur, you understand my hesitation, don’t you? I mean, being advisor and going to council meetings is one thing but being married to you? Being an official consort to the King? It’s…too much too soon. Don’t take it personally, because of course I want to spend the rest of my life with you, you’ve been my life since I met you and that’s not going to change. It’s just me and my issues. You don’t want to marry a man with so many issues, at least not so early in your reign.”

He’s cute when he’s trying to be honourable. Arthur sits up, too, and kisses him on the cheek. “I understand, don’t worry. I was just making sure. I am yours just as much as you are mine and I wouldn’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to.”

“You had no problem with that before.”

“I was in denial before. I had way more issues back then.”

“So you just decided to take them out on me?” Merlin smiles.

“I still do.”

“Yes but in a more satisfying way,” Merlin says and tucks a stray hair behind Arthur’s ear. “Wouldn’t you agree, sire?”

“Oh, wholeheartedly, m’lord,” Arthur says. Merlin hates it when the servants call him m’lord after he’s gotten his new position but he smiles whenever Arthur calls him that. Merlin said one night it was because it meant they were equals now. “Now, how many more trysts can we manage before they call us to dinner?”

“I wager at least two blowjobs and one lazy fuck.”

“I’ll take it.”

 

The dining hall is grand, with ornate tables and chairs with high ceilings and painted glass windows. Once again, Nemeth does the most of what it can with the space they’re given and figures less is more. Nemeth is known for that. The kingdom grew fame in King Rodor’s great-grandfather’s day, as simple artisans who built a small kingdom based on family, trust and nature. Ever since then, it’s become one of the most prosperous kingdoms in the realm and one of the most helpful, too. They do not shun people away people based on background or gender and it is their eldest child –no matte whether it is a daughter or a son- that becomes heir to the kingdom. They’re one of the only kingdoms in Albion to maintain this custom that was used during the times of the ancient kings, another being Astolat that lies upstream from Camelot though that kingdom is small and not as powerful as most.

Nemeth is what Camelot should’ve been before. Though their stance on magic is neutral –if it’s not a threat, it shouldn’t be bothered with- it’s closer to the mindset Camelot is trying to achieve.

Arthur sits at the main table with King Rodor and the rest of his family to his left and Merlin, Gwen and Percival to his right. There’s an open space in front of the main table, where singers and madrigals are stepping forward to sing tales of the Five Kingdoms and folktales from days of old. There are even a few tricksters and clowns, which Prince Sam is delighted for. The feast is laid out in front of them. There’s carrot soup flavoured with the herbs of spring, lamb roasted in honey and wine, spiced vegetables and a delightful light wine that tastes like berries of the forest.

“Where do you go after this, sire?” Rodor asks him over his king’s portion of the lamb.

“Please, call me Arthur. And I suppose we go to the rest of the realm,” Arthur answers. “To various outlyingmonarchs and powerful cities, and, obviously, the Five Kingdoms. Camelot’s peace treaty with them still holds after my father’s death but it will be hard to convince the kings of Camelot’s new rules.”

“Will you travel to Odin’s land?” Rodor asks.

“Maybe not yet. Some wounds take longer to heal.”

Rodor nods. “A wise choice.”

“Hopefully, maybe soon, I might be able to talk with the Druids.”

“The Druids? My, that’s ambitious,” Rodor says.

“They’re the ones that need my apologies the most.”

They spend the rest of the dinner making pleasant talk, something his father might’ve dreamed of during his reign. He’d been too stubborn to give up Gedref to King Rodor, never even taking the time to explore the damn country before claiming it. Of course, Arthur’s been through the labyrinth, as has Merlin, and he’s decided he can probably do without the trouble. Gedref will be good for Nemeth, another prosperous land that would come under their protection.

After dinner,  a wizened old man comes to tell the tales of the old kings of Camelot, in celebration of Arthur’s arrival. When he finishes the story of the Ten Words of Camelot –where a prince was cursed by a warlock to only say ten words for the rest of his lifetime and none of them the word ‘love’, which he needed when he fell in love with a princess-, there’s a tap on Arthur’s shoulder. Mithian.

“Walk with me, sire?” she asks. “Or do you want to listen some more?”

“It is fine,  these stories are all in Camelot’s libraries,” Arthur says. He looks to Merlin and nods, though Merlin’s a bit mesmerized listening to the stories. Merlin’s not from Camelot, he remembers, he must’ve never heard these tales before. Maybe when they get home, he can lend a few books of stories to Merlin.

The two of them exit the dining pavilion and into the cool night outside. They walk on a brick pathway that’s lined with flowers and trees on both sides that seem to shine bright in the moonlight.

“What do you want to talk about, Princess?” Arthur asks.

“You can call me Mithian, Arthur, most do. Unless you’re Sam, he calls me Smithy,” Mithian says and Arthur laughs. “I just wanted to tell you that my father’s confided in me and says he’s going to agree to the terms of your treaty. He never believed magic was a true force of evil unless you forced it to be. Of course, it will only be official tomorrow but I’m preparing you for it. You’ve made a good choice in coming to us first, Arthur, we have alliances with Caerleon, Astolat and Gawant that will ease your negotiations with them. Princess Elena and I often go riding together, she’s great company with a splendid laugh. Have you ever met her?”

Arthur smiles to himself, remembering Elena’s clumsy feet and gracious smile and how endearing she was. He’s not surprised she and Mithian are good friends. “I can’t say that I have.”

“You will, soon enough. She’ll be charmed to meet you, I’m sure,” Mithian stops to pick a flower from a branch. A red rose, almost as red as the Pendragon colour. She gives it to Arthur. “I want us to be friends. Good friends.”

“Mithian, I hope you don’t mean-”

“Marriage? Oh, goodness no. I’m heir to my father’s kingdom, there’s too much to think about for the moment. I’m sure I’ll marry a knight of a good kingdom someday. In fact, your knights of the Round Table seem to be quite handsome in their own right.”

Arthur laughs. “That they do.”

“And I’m not blind, Arthur. I see your affections lie elsewhere. Well, that, and it seems that the walls have ears. Do remember to be quieter next time,” Mithian says with a smirk and Arthur feels his face flush. “I just want us to be friends. We’ll have a good alliance, you and I. I’m going to be queen someday and you have the makings of a great king. We could prove to be unstoppable, don’t you think?”

“I do hope so, Mithian.” Arthur takes the flower she gave him and tucks it behind her ear.

 

The rest of spring is hard on a myriad different levels. The Camelot envoy was specifically told that they would be spending weeks upon weeks traveling the realm for peace treaties and court business concerning the welfare of Albion but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt. Arthur’s left Sir Leon as his representative in Camelot and he’s fully convinced that Leon will do a good job of maintaining the kingdom but Arthur misses it. He misses his friends and his chambers, Gwen misses Lancelot; she cries at night whispering his name, and all of them miss home.

Some of the talks are easy to resolve, ending with kind words and handshakes, but some are not and are only met with shut doors and alliances  hanging on a string. Arthur knows the kingdom might not share his views on all things but it was sad to see some of the kings and lords and ladies holding to Uther’s ways. He doesn’t want to stop fighting for this fight for magic but Gwen touches his shoulder every now and then, speaking gentle words that say there will be a time when where vanity and stubbornness will not weigh upon the men and women of the kingdom and they’ll see what Arthur is fighting for. Arthur has cried himself to sleep for countless nights, wondering if this is a futile cause and his father has stamped his teachings into every corner of the land. He even talks abouts it Freya in Avalon, saying, “They don’t know this is the doing of a dead man.”

Everything he’s doing, sometimes he doesn’t even believe in it. Even when Merlin smiles at him and his eyes turn golden in the privacy of their tent or chambers, Arthur’s met with a kind of guilt that combines the weight of his first lifetime and this one.

Though spring is not without hope. Whatever outlook they might have in life, when they wake up, there are signs of growth everywhere. Life, all around them, fighting to survive and Arthur wants to believe again.

Caerleon makes him believe again, agreeing to his terms and adding some of their own like the astute leaders they are. Gawant, too, with Elena’s smile, before and after they found out she was a Changeling. Small yet prominent lords and ladies give him hope, as well, lending their suppotr to Arthur’s cause and believing in him more than he does. King Olaf, too, unexpectedly gives him his support, despite their strife from years past. It’s probably because Lady Vivian has found another man in her life, a respectable man. Arthur was full of guilt when she greeted him then.

“Lady Vivian, I fear I haven’t seen you since…”

“Since that love spell gone wrong and you just waved me off like I was a spoiled princess, doomed to be in love with you forever?” Vivian says with a wide smile playing on her face.

“Um, yes, that.”

Vivian laughs. “You’re lucky I found my own true love or I’d have your head on a spike.”

It’s lovely to see that she hasn’t changed.

Arthur pays attention to the little things in the hopes of finding strength in them. Little things like Gwen’s smile and Merlin’s kisses, Percival’s gentle words and the bright colours of spring; birds from Camelot, bearing good news and messages of support, and the thought that they’ll be home soon.

They’ve made the rounds, through jagged mountains and ruined buildings; broken forests and deep woods, shallow shores and large lakes. They’re ventured into large, sweeping buildings with curved ceilings and roofs and seen the art and painting upon them; abandoned temples of gods forgotten but their figures still stood, making Arthur believe they weren’t all that forgotten, and towers with spires going round and round until they seem to touch the clouds above. They’ve passed kingdoms by the sea and beautiful homes painted with every colour imaginable; people with warm smiles and children with fast feet running around them.

They’ve gone round the realm, to the surroundings of Camelot and to where they can afford to go in a short matter of time. Arthur has never seen Albion like this before, in the wilderness and untamed nature of its lands, the great expanse of it all. It makes him think that Albion isn’t part of his life, instead, for a short while, he is part of it. This land will live longer than he will and has lived since the dawn of time. Arthur is a speck in its history and, even then, he will be forgotten soon enough. His horse tracks will be covered and his words traced out in the ground will disappear, his castles might soon go into ruin and his legacy will turn to whispers. He feels small in this land.

Being small doesn’t mean you are not entitled to feel big every once in a while.

Whatever will happen after his reign, it will happen and he will not have control over it but, right now, he can feel like a king. It’s what he’ll be remembered for, after all.

They go home with half of their proposed treaties approved, proud of themselves and happy to be in their own beds with their own lovers to warm their sides. Arthur finds that, once they’re home, the year passes with ease. Spring passes them and the leaves fall; the warmth of summer makes their love-making sweaty and hot until winter comes in with a brutal force. Their peace treaties come through after more visits and more than half the land now supports their new stance on magic.

Soon enough, Merlin agrees to marry Arthur in front of the entire court after the ban on magic has officially been lifted in the fall. The kiss shared at the hand-fasting ceremony tastes like years of waiting and wanting finally coming to an end. As Merlin enters the court as Camelot’s first official Court Sorcerer and King’s consort, the people of Camelot start calling this their golden age. Whenever one of his friends smile after seeing magic performed openly at feasts or banquets, Arthur can’t bring himself to disagree.

 

After a full year after their spring expedition around the realm, Arthur finds himself waking up to the best news he’s heard in weeks. The kingdom is no way degrading or dying in its strength or might but the news makes his world shake and his smile wide. He walks to Gwen’s room that day, practically skipping from joy, and smiles at everyone he meets.

Camelot is in a good place, probably the best place it’s been in years and Arthur’s never felt happier than when he looks out his window every morning to see people going about their normal duties and, occasionally, one of them will reach for magic in helping them with their chores and the like. Magic users haven’t exactly flocked to the city after the repeal but there have been more people learning about magic and openly using it as a tool in their everyday lives. It’s not easy, Arthur can see it, in their hesitant moves in doing magic but, one day it’ll be easier.

They’re on good terms with most kingdoms and those who like them a little less don’t bother with them unless provoked. There are whispers, however, whispers that have become increasingly louder in the past few months about a strange power conquering some lands in the North and West. It’s a small kingdom that’s come into power but no one talks about the ruler. Everyone knows who it is anyway. So they don’t talk about the LeFay kingdom gaining power, a kingdom built on anger and wits. Arthur can’t bring himself to talk about it, either, not until the LeFay soldiers march to his castle bearing the red and black banner.

Arthur shakes his head, trying not to think about it, as he knocks on Gwen’s door.

“Come in,” she says.

“So,” he says when he enters.

Gwen looks at him and narrows her eyes. “No, stop with the face.”

“But-”

“Ask like a normal person, Arthur,” Gwen says and walks towards him. “Walk with me.”

Arthur sighs but smiles anyway. He takes her hand in his and they leave her chambers to walk through the corridors of the castle. Finally, he asks, with as much composure as he can muster, “How does it feel being the betrothed to the noble Sir Lancelot?”

Gwen breathes out. “Surreal,” she answers. “I was just a serving girl, now I’m a lady of court, getting married to a knight while my brother’s one, too? This wasn’t supposed to happen, Arthur.”

“Guinevere-”

“No, Arthur,” she says, touching his arm. “Just because I didn’t expect this life doesn’t mean I don’t still want it. It’s just…odd. I’m sure I’m not alone in this, Elyan was never supposed to be a knight and Percival was a lowborn from a small village.”

“And Merlin? How do you think he feels about his new titles, Guinevere?” Arthur asks, suddenly worried.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him, Arthur. I think this is all he’s ever wanted.” Gwen smiles. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, weddings aren’t an easy thing to manage, if you remember. Even though Lancelot and I have agreed on a small one, there are a few distinguished guests that insist on coming. Mithian, for one, and there’s no doubt she’ll bring Elena with her, too. And with that, representatives of numerous other kingdoms will want to come.”

“Of course, my Lady,” Arthur says and kisses her hand as a farewell.

As he makes his rounds, he can’t help but think about how Merlin’s adjusting to his new place in Camelot. Gwen’s right, of course, there’s nothing he should worry about but there’s still some sort of doubt there. He’s quite convinced that all Merlin wanted was Arthur and magic back in the land, he didn’t need all these titles. Arthur just thought it was a nice gesture, a kind of thank you.

Merlin never lets his title mess with his head, though. He just thinks of it as a new name and welcomes the greetings and smiles everyday but he’s still Merlin. He’s still his stupid self, with his stupid smile and big ears and loud mouth. He just looks a bit different.

At formal occasions and meetings, peace treaties and the like, Merlin dons rich robes of either blue or red –as a homage to his old servant clothes- with Druid patterns and small dragons embroidered in gold along the hem and sleeves. He wears them over a simple beige tunic and black breeches, a metal belt around his waist and his Sidhe staff by his side.

But, normally, Merlin just wears a better variation of his old clothes; a red or blue doublet with simple breeches and his signature neckerchief. He’s stubborn and refuses to be dressed up when unnecessary and even when it’s unnecessary, he complains constantly.

“Just because I’m buggering the king,” he would say.

Today, he’s wearing his simple clothes and an excited expression.

“What’s going on? Did the children sing you a song again?” Arthur asks fondly. The children of Camelot love Merlin and draw pictures of him and sing songs to him. They fawn over him like he’s a big brother and Merlin loves it, constantly lords it over Arthur, saying the kids like him better. Arthur loves it, too, and secretly, seeing Merlin’s face peppered with kisses from children makes his heart beats a little bit faster thinking about having that for himself one day.

“No, that happened yesterday,” Merlin says. “Kilgharrah came in from the Westlands with news.”

Arthur’s not the biggest fan of the dragon and he doesn’t even hide it from Merlin, though his consort just blames it on his upbringing. “What was he doing in the Westlands? Bayard hates dragons.”

“Yeah but he can’t just shoot a dragon out of the sky for no reason, not when our peace treaty with them still holds. Anyway,” Merlin says. “He met this man called Julius who held parts of triskele and Kilgharrah said that the triskele, if completed, was a key to an ancient tomb that housed a dragon egg. The last part to the triskele is in the Camelot vaults. A dragon egg, Arthur. We have to go.”

“Go…?”

“To the tomb of Ashkanar to get the egg,” Merlin says matter-of-factly. “Julius gave Kilgharrah the triskellion to give to me, after he was promised a handsome sum. I have to go, Arthur, it’s my duty. I’m the last Dragonlord and I have an obligation to Kilgharrah and this dragon. I can’t let my birth-rite go to someone else.”

The dragon egg, it’s here, too, as it was in his first lifetime. Did Merlin join them in that quest to save that egg? Did he succeed or was that egg in that tower when it crumbled into ashes? Arthur knows how much Kilgharrah and the wyverns mean to Merlin, how much being a Dragonlord and his father’s son means to him and knowing now that Arthur might’ve cost him one more dragon to protect in his first lifetime makes him want to bleed out.

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“I was thinking maybe you could join me. You and the knights. Gwaine, Leon, the lot. It’d be much better company than just traveling with a guard that calls me Lord Emrys and doesn’t know the difference between a joke and a dragon,” Merlin says and Arthur laughs. “We’ve been so busy lately and I’m sure you miss seeing the lads out of training and quests.”

“This’ll be a quest, Merlin.”

“Yes, but a quest for dragons. They love dragons, they think Kilgharrah is brilliant and treat the visiting wyverns as pets.” It’s true, once the wyverns were tamed by Merlin’s Dragonlord touch, they were quite harmless and cute, too. The knights would name each one that came into the kingdom and take turns petting them. “Come on, Arthur.”

Arthur sighs. “You’re a child and we leave in the morning.”

Merlin kisses him on the nose and skips off.

 

“It’s night, we should make camp,” Elyan suggests.

He’s right, they’ve been riding from the tomb of Ashkanar that is now nothing more than rubble and ruins for hours. There’s really no telling if they’ll reach Camelot tonight and Arthur can already see some of his men tiring as they ride on their horses. There are eight of them, with Gwen and Lancelot opting to stay in Camelot to preside over court matters and handle their upcoming hand-fasting.

They ride to an abandoned house with strong enough walls to house them for the night. “This seems like a good enough place as any,” Bedivere says.

“Mm, as long as there’s a floor I can sleep on I’m happy,” Merlin says and smiles at Bedivere.

They’ve become good friends in the past few months because, with Bedivere’s new disability, he’s turned to magic to make his life a bit easier. Of course, he’s still training with the knights to work on his left hand so he can still swing a sword but he’s taken to meeting Merlin for private lessons on magic. Merlin and Arthur have discussed the possibility of Merlin expanding his classes and lessons to teach others who might be interested in the somewhat dying art but, no matter what, Merlin considers Bedivere his first student.

They make a fire and cook game over it in silence.

“How’s Baby?” Percival asks of the dragon egg. Through the long journey, they’ve taken to calling the egg ‘baby’ because calling it egg is weird.

“Quiet,” Merlin answers and cradles the egg against his chest. “I don’t think he’ll wake up until I find out how. So I’m going to see Kilgharrah when we reach Camelot, maybe he can tell me how to do it.”

“I think it’s great, that another’s dragon gonna be brought into the world,” Kay says.

“So Merlin going to give birth to it, yeah?” Gwaine says with a laugh. “That’s gonna hurt.”

“Do you find everything funny, Gwaine?” Arthur asks.

“’Course I do.” Gwaine shrugs nonchalantly. “Otherwise, nothing is.”

They eat in silence after that and Arthur doesn’t bother Gwaine until he’s the one to speak up about how hungry he is for the Percival’s famous cakes. Gwaine’s no less bruised than any of them, with a dead father and mother who died two years ago from starvation, a sister he hasn’t seen in years after she was taken by raiders and a new life like this. He’s just better at hiding it.

Arthur always thought Gwaine and Kay were alike, in their cheerful disposition and easy laughs but Kay’s more open than Gwaine is. He’ll cry if he damned well pleases and that doesn’t make him any less a knight, he’ll scream if he’s angry and laugh without shame when he’s happy. Arthur’s never seen Gwaine cry.

After dinner, all of them retreat to positions around the fire to sleep. Merlin has his back to Arthur, with his arms around the dragon egg, saying things in the ancient language as Arthur presses closer to him.

“Do you think it’s going to be a boy or a girl?” Arthur asks.

“I don’t think you can tell,” Merlin says. “Besides, Kilgharrah says that dragons are advanced creatures and they have their young choose their own gender whenever they so choose. So Baby might be both, or neither.”

This dragon will be like their child, Arthur realizes; a part of the family. Arthur’s wanted a family with Merlin for months. They haven’t really discussed it but there have been hints, small implications in their everyday life that say that they’re both ready for a child, someone to love and take care of.

“Interesting,” Arthur says absent-mindedly. He has something else he wants to tell Merlin, it’s been itching on his skin for weeks, but he hasn’t found the right time to tell him. Now would be a good one, considering whose territory they’re riding into. “Merlin, I want to tell you something.”

Merlin turns, recognizing the seriousness of Arthur’s voice. “What is it?”

“We’re riding into Druid territory and I’ve been thinking about making an agreement with them. They’re not a kingdom so it’ll be different but,” Arthur says nervously, “I want peace with them. They’ve never done me any harm and I wish to protect them. You went to visit them a few months ago and they welcomed you graciously into their hold. This will only cement our friendship and I really want that.”

“Arthur, that’s great,” Merlin says with a wide smile.

“I know, but there are terms, of course.”

“What kinds of terms?”

When Arthur tells him, Merlin is sceptical at first, nervous and wary. Arthur understands, of course, he knows what Merlin knows at this point but this is something he wants. By extension, this is something Merlin wants, too. They talk about it at length, as the fire dwindles down and the knights all go to sleep and, at the end, Merlin’s more than willing. Merlin’s excited, actually, and says as much to the egg. Arthur might’ve been imagining it but he could’ve sworn he heard the egg squeal in delight from the news.

 

They march into Druid territory first thing in the morning. Arthur told the knights to go back to Camelot, saying that this was his and Merlin’s business and they graciously bowed out, though Percival looked heartbroken at the prospect of not seeing the Druids. Arthur makes a note to take him to a visit one day.

Technically speaking, the Druids have no territory. They only claim lands that are empty, like abandoned forests or dark caverns, and they move around a lot like the nomads they are. Occasionally, there are small settlements in the wilderness so the children and elderly might know some stability but, most of the time, they don’t have a permanent residence. The Druids consider nature –therefore, by extension, the Old Religion for it is a force of nature itself- their home.

Arthur quite likes that concept, of never having four solid walls around them but a home nonetheless. Their home was in between the trees and by rivers; the soft ground under their feet and the singing wind around them; their simple robes and old customs, their young and those smiles of theirs.

Here, however, as they pass lands previously uncharted by Camelot patrols because of the strong magic that held them at bay, they’re not looking for a deep cave or small tents and fires. This area actually houses one of the only Druid temples that was left untouched. Even his father was scared to send his men here, fearing they would return with magic or worse.

“It should be somewhere near here, right?” Merlin asks.

“We should leave our horses here, then,” Arthur says. “I don’t think you should bring your transport into a place of worship.”

The forest is quiet when they leave their horses, venturing through the deep green of the wild. They part the trees and branches, step over small puddles on the ground and pick apples from the trees. It seems a long journey but, soon enough, the trees seem to part and bend, creating a walkway with branches overhead making an arch. The ground is now littered with small stones, like trails to the temple, and just a few minutes later, they come across are stone steps leading down to a large, empty circular space housing nothing else but a small building.

The temple isn’t huge or practically extraordinary, it’s not a big symbol of magic and the Old Religion. If anything, it’s a bit rundown and worn from age. But he can see a sort of strange beauty about it. The stones and bricks that were used to build the buildings seem the colour of sunrise or even sunset, like they’re constantly changing colours every time Arthur blinks.. It’s a small tower with spires on top and windows around it but the windows are painted, too. It encompasses an entire scope of colours as the light hits them; light blue in the middle and a bright red by the right side, purple and brown, even the darkest shade of black that seems like that the inside is made of night.The double-doored entrance has a druid triskele upon it, and it proceeds to part as Arthur and Merlin begin walking toward it.

Beside Arthur, Merlin is tracing the Druid symbol on his left wrist nervously. He confided in Arthur a few times, telling he didn’t yet feel like a Druid, despite the fact that they welcomed him as Emrys. He still felt detached from his birth-rite and Arthur doesn’t blame him. He’s been living too long in a castle.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

And it is.

Once the door closes, there are seven walls around them, three are reserved for statues of the Triple Goddess at each stage while the other four are carved with Druid patterns and sayings in the ancient language, with drawings of magical creatures, dragons and the like. When they look above them, the roof is painted a dark blue with strange magic lights that seem to resemble stars. The statues are taller than them, each stage towering over them.

The Maiden Huntress wearing a long, flowing dress and a bow and arrow by her side, with a fierce smile that rivals Morgana’s, the Mother Goddess with her warm eyes and hair reaching her back, and the Death Crone stooped over her walking stick, her face weathered and cruel. The light pierces through the coloured windows they saw from outside and it makes an entire rainbow on their faces and the marbled floor.

“Arthur Pendragon,” a voice breaks through their reverie. Arthur turns and sees a group of Druids, dressed their customary simple robes, headed by a woman in dark blue. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“I never thought otherwise,” Arthur says with a smile. He bows his head curtly and his men follow. “My Lady.”

“The Druids have no titles, Arthur. Call me Rhea,” the woman says. “The Druids have names for you, however, Arthur Pendragon and Merlin, son of Balinor. The Once and Future King and Emrys.”

All the Druids are painted in ink, but Rhea’s is the most exquisite. There are strange patterns and letterings around her eyes, making her seem ethereal and otherworldly. Arthur wonders what Merlin would look like with those patterns swirling around his pale skin and his cock unashamedly stirs in his breeches.

“Do you want to know what the ancient words say about you?” a Druid girl asks. She's young, no older than eighteen, with a pretty face, short hair and only a few runes drawn around her eyes. Arthur wants to ask how someone so young can be part of a group of powerful Druids but he remembers Merlin was only nineteen when his destiny was thrust upon him.

“We already know-” Merlin says but Arthur cuts him off by saying, “Yes.”

The girl introduces herself as Caitlin and she leads them to one of the four walls and points to a drawing there. It’s almost like a children’s drawing, bright colours and misshapen heads but Arthur sees it. It’s them. It’s Merlin and Arthur, drawn in bright colours against an ancient wall.

“How-?”

“The ancient words say that, one day, a great King will be born from men with skin kissed by the sun, that would bring back what was needed most in a time when it was needed most, accompanied by the greatest warlock known to man with power beyond belief. They say the King would inevitably fall in the hands of a Druid, along with his beloved kingdom but not before he made it the greatest one remembered by men. And, when the time came once more, the King and all his court would return to bring back peace to the land.”

“That’s,” Merlin says, “well, fuck.”

“Arthur Pendragon, the king that was and the king to be, along with Emrys, the greatest sorcerer to walk the earth,” Caitlin says.

“What else do the ancient words say?” Arthur finds himself asking.

“Nothing much, vague words and lost whispers. This is all we know. Other creatures of magic might know more but we cannot truly say." Caitlin shrugs and brushes her hair away from her face.  “Though these words are true, the words and drawings here, whatever it is.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, balling his fists up, trying to contain his anger directed elsewhere. He doesn’t need to hear more of this; there’s nothing more, anyway. He turns back to Rhea. “Rhea, we have come to agreement with the terms of-”

“We would hear Emrys speak,” Rhea says.

Merlin stills next to him but slowly takes a deep breath. “The King of Camelot and I, acting as his Court Sorcerer,” Merlin says, “accept the terms of your agreement.”

“All of them?”

“Yes,” Merlin says. “We will not pursue you or disturb your peace. The Druids will be welcome in Camelot whenever they so choose to visit and, in return, the Druids would open their arms to Camelot and its citizens for lessons and teachings of magic so magic would be taught in the right way.”

“And the last term?” Rhea asks. “Do you agree to that?”

“We agree to,” Merlin breathes in, “we agree to foster a Druid child as the King’s ward as a sign of goodwill. He would be a son to Arthur and I and his eligibility for the throne will be tested when he comes of age, so long as Arthur and I don’t have any natural born heirs.”

“We agree to that, only on one condition,” Arthur says, stepping forward. “The child is chosen by us.”

“Very well, you are welcome to visit the Druid settlements to make your choice.”

“We have already picked the child,” Arthur says. He looks at Merlin and Merlin nods. “His name is Mordred. He will be twelve this year.”

Rhea and her advisors talk among themselves and, when they finally turn back to him, they nod. “It is done.”

 

The Druids insisted on having Merlin and Arthur feast on the fruits of their harvest and looking around the temple further and they couldn’t exactly refuse the goodwill of their new friends. One of the four walls actually opened up to a spiralling staircase that led to the topmost level of the tower. Out of the window there, it seemed like they could see entire expanses of Albion. It was like they could see through time, as well, see the tall castles being built and watch them fall in mere seconds. It was a trick, a spell, he knew, but he wondered what Camelot would be like if he could see it through speeding lenses of magic. How long would it take for those towers to collapse? Not long, he wagered, but he didn’t want to tell Merlin that.

They treated Merlin like a pet almost, ushering him around the temple and telling him histories of their culture, teaching him ancient prayers and explaining their gods to him. Merlin drank them all in, eager and excited and hungry, and, soon enough, as the day wore on, he began tracing his Druid symbol as a sign of comfort. These are his people and Arthur wants Merlin to belong.

By the time they set off to Camelot, it’s nearly evening and Merlin’s taken to cradling the egg close to his chest again. Even Arthur’s excited to see the baby dragon hatched.

“We need to ready a room for Mordred,” Merlin suddenly says.

“Yes, I suppose we do,” Arthur says.

“Somewhere close to our chambers, with a nice bed and maybe we can paint the room, too,” Merlin says. “Do you think he’ll like the colour blue?”

“I’m sure he will.”

Merlin quiets suddenly. “Do you think he’ll forgive me?”

“Yes.”

He has to.

They enter a clearing near Camelot’s towers and dismount. Merlin calls out for the Dragon and, soon enough, there are huge gusts of wind that signal the Dragon’s coming. As per usual, Kilgharrah bows to both of them but only Merlin answers it with a polite nod.

Merlin rests the dragon egg on the ground and looks up to Kilgharrah. “Is it still alive?” he asks.

“Dragons can live for more than a thousand years in their eggs.”

“How does it-?”

“Dragons were brought into the world by the Dragonlords. As you are the last Dragonlord, it is your duty to bring this dragon into your protection,” Kilgharrah says. “What you have to do is give it a name.”

Arthur can feel Merlin trying to calm down and Merlin closes his eyes, trying to summon his powers from within. When he opens them, he instantly speaks, in his rough, Dragonlord voice, “Aithusa.”

In the stillness of the night, Arthur hears cracks against the cold wind. He looks down to the ground and slowly sees the egg opening up, something hitting the shell from the inside. Whatever it is, it’s a strong beast, persistent. When its head finally resurfaces from a three hundred year sleep, Arthur catches his breath.

It’s a tiny, beautiful thing, with white skin and wings that begin spreading out. It looks up to Kilgharrah first, recognizing him as its kin but it turns and looks at Merlin, bows its little head, and then at Arthur. It cocks its head at him, confused and wary, but, soon, it lets out a tiny squeak of joy. Arthur realizes he has a tear rolling down his cheek. Next to him, Merlin feels the beauty of the moment more and has to wipe the tears on his face with his sleeve.

 

He kneels down and slowly reaches out a hand to pet Aithusa. “Nice to meet you, Aithusa,” he says.

It leans into his touch and Merlin says, “It’s a girl. At least for now. Well, it seems you are not the last of your kind anymore, Kilgharrah.”

“It would seem not,” Kilgharrah says, smiling. “In the dragon tongue, you named her after the light of the sun. Fitting, it seems, for the kingdom you and Arthur have and have not yet built.”

Merlin looks up to Arthur and Arthur has the strongest desire to tug him up and kiss him on his stupid face for changing his entire life. Aithusa hops into Merlin’s arms and curls up against his chest.

“What happens to her after this?” Merlin asks, his hand curling around Aithusa’s small frame. “Will she stay with us?”

“She might. You are the last Dragonlord and her place belongs with you, as does mine,” Kilgharrah answers. “She is still young now, she may need your protection, at least until she can fly.

“I will build a place for her in Camelot, then,” Arthur says. “For her, for you, Great Dragon, and the wyverns. It’ll be their sanctuary in Camelot, where they won’t be harmed.”

Merlin squeezes his hand as a sign of gratitude.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, “ready the horses, will you? I wish to speak to Kilgharrah for a moment or two. I’ll join you soon.”

Merlin is wary to leave them both alone but Aithusa is wriggling around in his arms and she’s his priority for the moment. As soon as Merlin’s out of hearing distance, Arthur can feel his face drop and harden.

“Make no mistake, Dragon, you are not in my good graces,” he says. “But Merlin is your kin and you are his. I can’t pretend to understand that bond but I do understand that he has your trust. I, however, don’t trust you one bit. Your prophecies were wrong and, because of that, I’m adopting Mordred.”

Kilgharrah frowns. “The boy will kill you.”

“The ancient words said a Druid would kill me, yes, but it doesn’t have to be him. That boy was like family to me and now I’m making that official. I have Merlin’s approval and that’s all I need.”

“Why are you so willing to spite me, sire?”

Arthur feels his rage swell up, pouring out of him, loud and ferocious. “Because you planned all of this, so that I would die in the end. So all of us would die, answering the calls of destiny only destiny was vague and you filled in the blanks accordingly. You tricked an innocent boy into doing terrible things and you expected him to. You wanted him to believe in me, to love me, to do anything for me. But here is one thing you didn’t plan for, one thing you didn’t expect.”

“And what’s that?”

“That I would love him back.”

Even the Dragon is silent at this point. Arthur tries to calm down, thinking of Merlin’s smile and his tears as Aithusa was hatched, but all he remembers is how Merlin looked right before Arthur died in his arms. “It would’ve been easier if he never listened to you.”

The Dragon laughs, hearty and mischievous. “Would it really, sire?”

“How else would you explain how you got everything you wanted before, and he got nothing?”

“It is destiny.”

“Your twisted version of it, yes, because you hated my father and let all of us die. The Old Religion never did elaborate on what would happen to Emrys and the Once and Future King, nor the High Priestess and the Queen. We were your pawns, things to be sacrificed while you played along. The gods of the Old Religion might’ve prophesized we would be born but none of them told us how to live,” Arthur is practically yelling. “I will let you live, Dragon, if you swear not to play with his mind again. Let nature run its course on all our lives and let us end up where we end up this time. Take care of Aithusa, take care of yourself but let us live how we want to live.”

“The prophecies know your end, my lord.”

Arthur turns his back to the Dragon. “Nothing good ever came from knowing the future.” Then, he hears those giant wings flapping away from him, disappearing into the clouds and away from their destinies.


	4. Chapter 4

_Come away, O human child!_

_to the waters and the wild_

_with a faery, hand in hand_

_for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand_

 - William Butler Yeats

 

It's a Sunday when they bring him home with them. The sky is bright and the grass is soft when he leaves the Druid settlement that he has called home for a year. The puddles around him are not made of mud or blood, but clear and he can see his own reflection in them as he pretends to pack his bags for Camelot. He doesn't know why he said yes to their offer.

Maybe it was because he wanted to forgive them in the end, or because Arthur looked broken and bruised when he kneeled down to talk to him, as if he had wronged him in some horrible, grotesque, unspeakable way, and he felt sorry for him. This was a king, a great king, who had made the grass green again and the air safe enough for people like him to breathe. But here he was, crouching down to a small child as if he owed him the world and Mordred couldn't understand why. What was he apologizing for?

Emrys, that he could understand, he had wanted Mordred to die once to save his prince. His apology, coated in so much sincerity and honesty that Mordred felt a stabbing pain in his heart from where he grudged him before. But why was Arthur sorry? Was it because he had let injustice slip through his fingers until those hands were bloody? Was it because he couldn't have saved Mordred's father that one time?

He didn't understand. But, somehow, he did. Somehow, he understood that some things had to be apologized for even if they weren't your crimes. So he forgave them, both of them, and rode on Arthur's horse with him, his newfound guardian's arms shadowing over him as he pressed on with his riding.

So he's here, in Arthur's arms and his care, for some weird reason, he will be going home with them. He still doesn't know why they extended the hand of family to him, when, yes, he can admit, there are so many others they have wronged. But he's here and he looks to his left and Emrys -no, Merlin, he's Merlin now- smiles at him. He points out different patterns of the clouds; one shaped like a star, another like a fat dragon (Mordred laughs then, and so does Arthur).

"Can you make your own patterns in the clouds?" Mordred asks him.

Merlin smirks at him and asks back, "What would you like?"

"The Druid symbol," he answers simply.

Merlin nods and the blue eyes seem to flash away and be replaced by the golden that has always been underneath them. Then, up there in the sky, the clouds seem to meld together and apart until they form the symbol.

Mordred, in spite of himself, sees it and claps. He has never seen that big a display of magic; the people around him have always been too scared to stand out more than they have to and, even after the ban on magic was repealed, people were still cautious. Their magic remained small, only necessities and chores. He marvels at the cloud, the cloud Merlin made just for him, upon his request. It's a strange feeling, to know that he can have things now. He doesn't know what to do with it.

"Can you teach me how to do that?" Mordred asks Merlin.

Merlin looks cautious. He is still the same as the Druids. Even the people protected by the king haven't found their home again in magic yet. Mordred looks up to Arthur and the angle is different here. He can see the king look down at him with a small smile that pulls at his entire expression, giving him the face of someone exceptionally content.

"I'm sure that can be arranged," he says. "Mordred, I must let you know that you can ask anything from us."

"Will I get everything, sire?"

Both Arthur and Merlin laugh and Arthur shakes his head. "'Fraid not, chap," he says. "I don't intend to raise you as a spoiled brat."

 

Mordred doesn’t want to talk so much when they reach Camelot. He’s afraid they might send him back. It wouldn’t be so bad, going back, to his Druid friends and his open magic in the wild but he knows how important this peace treaty is to the Druids. He has a duty, even if he doesn’t understand half of the reason why it’s him that has it.

By the time they reach Camelot, it’s evening and Merlin says, “Come on, I’ll show you to your chambers so you can sleep. We’ll show you around tomorrow, alright?”

Whenever Merlin talks to him, it’s like he’s talking while walking on glass. He’s afraid of Mordred, still afraid after all these years, and all Mordred wants to do is tell him there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. He used to be afraid of Merlin, too, until he realized they were too much of the same thing to have room for fear. They’re kin and they’re supposed to be family now. He _wants_ Merlin to be a father to him.

When they walk up the palace steps into the castle, Arthur notices Merlin’s hesitancy and reaches out to hold his hand. Without noticing, Mordred smiles. Whatever it is, he’ll have guardians that love each other, he thinks. People have had worse.

His chambers are close to Merlin and Arthur’s, on the second floor, and it’s bigger than most of the caves he lived in when he was a child. It’s spacious, walls painted a sky blue –his favourite colour- with a bed big enough for him to grow into, although Merlin assures him that if he ends up bigger than they expected, a bigger bed will not be hard to acquire. Some part of him wants to him to grow exactly as he's supposed to: tall and lanky with some definition underneath his clothes just so he can look more like Merlin when he does. They already look like brothers -with their short dark hair, blue eyes and fair skin. Mordred wouldn't mind looking more like his guardian, he decides. He will never look like Arthur, who is as golden and grounded as they come.

Merlin and Arthur leave him after they show him the view from his window: the castle courtyard and the palace gates, and, overhead, the tips of the jagged mountains of the north towering over them all. The bed is too big for him and he feels almost suffocated by the weight of this new life but, despite that, despite hoping and praying to the gods that this place might feel like home to him one day instead of a pleasant prison, he has no problem sleeping that day.

He dreams of dragons.

In the morning, a boy his age wakes him up from sleep. He has dark hair and skin to match, introduces himself as Owen, Mordred’s servant. _I have servants now?_ Mordred is momentarily confused until he remembers where he is, how soft the bed is, and how a King’s ward has certain obligations, duties and privileges, like servants. Owen picks out his clothes for the day, all of them newly made just for him, but Mordred insists on dressing himself.

“The King and Court Sorcerer are waiting right outside, my prince,” Owen tells him before he excuses himself.

He’s wrong, Mordred’s not a prince. Mordred’s not anything, he’s just a bargaining chip.

He dresses in his new garb of a comfortable red tunic under a grey doublet with black breeches, musses up his hair and goes out of his room to greet his guardians.

“Morning, Mordred,” Arthur says cheerfully and hands him a sandwich. “We’re having breakfast on the go today. Merlin and I have cleared our morning to show you around the castle. How’s that sound?”

“Good,” Mordred says, trying not to show his discomfort at being called ‘prince’ and dressed up.

Merlin sees it though and, as soon as Arthur turns his back to them to lead them through their morning expedition, he leans in and grips Mordred’s arm reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I felt the same way.”

But his case was different. Merlin loves Arthur, always, forever, and would don a thousand titles if Arthur wanted him to. Despite this, Mordred smiles and walks closer to Merlin.

Merlin and Arthur show him everything. The towers, the main castle, the kitchens and lone chambers; the knights and ladies of Camelot as they pass, everything. But Mordred’s decided his favourite place even before they step inside.

Arthur’s the one to tell him about the dragons and Mordred can tell that there’s disdain in his voice when he talks about the Great Dragon. He doesn’t know why and he’s afraid to ask. He’s only been Arthur’s ward for a day –barely that even.

The Dragon’s Keep looks like a children’s drawing from the outside. Black, white and grey stones piled on top of one another to make a large square structure in Camelot’s citadel, with part of the roof open on top. Merlin tells him it’s for the dragons to fly in and out with ease. The door they walk into is a childlike blue and Mordred likes it, not only because it’s his favourite colour but because the entire Keep seems to symbolize freedom in one way or another.

They walk in and there’s two levels on each side with a large expanse in the middle, covered with hay. It’s empty at the moment.

“Where are the dragons?” Mordred asks, his first question since his arrival in Camelot.

He can’t help it, he’s grown up on stories about dragons, with their mouths that breathe fire and spoke the ancient language. He heard stories about how they used to help the ancient kings in their reign and were even considered members of the court sometimes; how the kings would ride on their backs when it was time for war so they might see their enemies burned.

“They’re probably out hunting,” Merlin says.

“How many are there?”

“Well, there are only two real dragons. Kilgharrah –that’s the big grey one- and the small white one’s Aithusa. The rest living here are wyverns, who are cousins of the dragons so this is their home, too, because they come under a Dragonlord’s protection.”

“Ah, it looks like one of them is coming home,” Arthur says and points up, to the open roof.

Mordred hears big flaps of wings, alongside smaller, less distinguishable ones then a large figure flies through the roof to land in the empty space in front of them. The dragon is huge, bigger than his room in Camelot, even, and Mordred feels like it could eat him whole if it wanted to. But, instead, it bows to him.

“Mordred, this is Kilgharrah,” Merlin tells him.

“Nice to meet you,” Mordred says in a shaky voice.

“And I you, my prince,” the dragon says. Somehow, when the dragon says it, it sounds like a threat.

Another figure lands on the ground but it’s so small, smaller as it sits next to Kilgharrah. Without Merlin telling him, he knows this is Aithusa. He walks towards her and, at first, Aithusa is wary and wants to hide behind Kilgharrah but Mordred’s careful with his movements.

“I’m okay,” he says, like she can understand him. But, it seems like she does, and leans forward to brush her head against the palm of his head.

Mordred reaches to his pocket and takes out his half-eaten apple from breakfast and puts it on the floor for her to eat. Aithusa sniffs around it but then just eats the apple whole in one big motion, coughing up the core and stem and he laughs. As some form of gratitude, Aithusa jumps on him, the act forcing him to land flat on his back on the ground and kisses him. Her kisses were just small pecks of her mouth against his face but he accepts them all the same.

“It seems like she found a new favourite,” Arthur says, with a smile in his voice.

Merlin laughs and says, “I always knew she had good taste.” He kneels forward to pet Aithusa and ruffle Mordred’s hair.

It’s then that Mordred thinks that staying here wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

 

The next few months are hard, though, but are not without their small miracles.

Arthur starts teaching him how to fight with weapons in private lessons and Mordred finds his strength in swinging a mace but desperately wishes he could wield a sword like Arthur and his knights as he watches them train in the afternoons. Merlin, too, starts teaching him but his lessons are much harder. His magic lessons are slotted in everyday in between his normal lessons of language and arithmetic and courtly manners –that one’s taught by Gwen, who could be strict if she didn’t like Mordred so much- and he loves it.

Mordred loves learning new spells and new ways of using magic. Sometimes, when Merlin is busy, he practices either by himself or with Sir Bedivere, who was one of Merlin’s first students. Merlin has other students, of course, but only a handful of really important people and Mordred doesn’t like them half as much as he does Bedivere.

Soon, Mordred starts finding that he gives his smiles away easier and makes more friends because of it. Percival, who teaches him how to cook, Elyan, who reads to him in that wonderful voice of his, and Mithian and Elena, who always visit Camelot because they’re friends with Gwen. He makes friends with Mithian’s little brother, Sam, who teaches him how to burp the alphabet, and the sons and daughters of Camelot’s lords and ladies. He even starts talking to Owen, whose dream is to be a singer and even sings to Mordred sometimes.

It is hard belonging in a world that shunned him before but he has to make do. This is home, now. Soon, he believes it will start feeling like that.

Beyond this, Mordred doesn't remember anything but little bits and pieces of his life in Camelot for the next few years. His guardians leading him to council meetings when he is older; him making fun of how Merlin and Arthur are so very nauseating and, to make a point, they snog right in front of him and he throws nuts in their general direction (he gets in trouble for that but it's not like he minds extra magic homework).

He remembers Gwen and the other women of the court fawning over him, telling how adorable he is; being called ‘little prince’, small arguments and fights with his guardians that are resolved only by calming voices and diplomacy because Arthur is still king; his books, leatherbound and beautiful; his magic that begins to flow free in Camelot, too; and family picnics.

In this last memory, he is still small, situated in between Arthur and Merlin in a large field outside of Camelot. He sees the far silhouette of the castle and points it out to his guardians. Arthur tells him not to think about the citadel for now, they have a few hours to spare and he wants to spend it like a family. So Merlin serves sandwiches and sliced chicken while he talks incessantly about the people of the court. Gossip, Arthur notes, salacious gossip that shouldn't be heard by a child. Merlin retaliates by saying, wouldn't it be better if Mordred had heard it from them, instead of from simple kitchen boys who don't know what they're talking about?

"Your parenting skills leave something to be desired, Merlin," Arthur says, but he's not accusing him of anything.

"Nah, I think he's doing alright," Mordred pipes up and Merlin suddenly stares at him.

It has barely been a year since he came to live with them and he is not without his own set of challenges that challenge them back in turn. He does not belong, sometimes, in his new skin that is made of red cloth and silver armour and he feels like it's his responsibility to yell it out to his guardians. He is difficult, he knows it, and he has contemplated running many times but the thing that holds him back is the thought that when Arthur and Merlin wake to check on him in the morning, he will not be there and he is scared they will have expected it. He doesn't want to do that to them, because he has started to love them, too.

"Can you show Arthur what I taught you the other day?"  Merlin asks.

Mordred nods and his guardians find themselves like they always do -seamlessly and without another word spoken- and arrange themselves until Arthur is sitting up, looking at Mordred, and Merlin's head is on his lap, tilted so he can see him, too. Mordred lifts his hands and recites the spell like it is already familiar on his tongue. He watches as their empty plates levitate off the ground and circle each other, going round and round and round like an endless ride.

 

 

 

Mordred is fourteen now. He has been in Camelot for two years and the sinking feeling he got when he first arrived, the one that said that this would never feel like home, has subsided. It had to make room for the new people and experiences. Mordred had no business dragging something behind him that would destroy him.

He has friends now, outside of the court of his guardians, friends that are his own age and find pleasure in small, juvenile things. Though he always comes back to Merlin and Arthur, or the knights, or even Gwen, he finds having these kids great, too. Plus there are boys and girls from his old Druid camp, too, when he comes to visit them. Like Kara, who is fiery and strong-headed but has a sweet smile.

Mordred looks grown-up, at least more grown up than he looked when he first came to Camelot. Before, ladies of the court fawned over him like he was an adorable mouse but, now, they admire his tall stature and growing definitions in his face.

Soon, he will be sixteen and a man grown. He can properly try out for the knights and actually say things in council. He can't wait to be sixteen.

Mordred runs down the castle steps, his red cape flowing behind him and Aithusa on his heel. He pushes past the guards and household servants who shake their heads fondly so he can stand at his place at the front of the envoy.

“You’re late,” Gwen says just as he’s gaining his composure.

“Merlin and Arthur aren’t even here yet,” Mordred whines.

“They’re the King and Court Sorcerer, you don’t have that privilege,” Gwen scolds him. "And stand straight.”

"But why?" Mordred moans.

"You know why. We have special guests coming. They'll be staying with us in the castle indefinitely. Lady Elaine's kingdom was taken by savages, you remember."

"I remember, Gwen, but we get special guests every other day, I'm tired of standing straight."

It's true, Camelot welcomes new delegates and royals so much that Mordred doesn't even remember half of them. He remembers the ones he likes, though. Like Queen Annis who scared him but admired him after he spoke out during the banquet or Tristan and Isolde, who weren't even royal but Arthur made a big deal of making peace with their troop.

Gwen looks disapprovingly at him, but Mordred can tell she's not serious. "Your fathers spoiled you, little prince.”

"No, they didn't."

Gwen sighs, admitting defeat, and kisses his cheek before joining her husband on the steps. He feeds Aithusa an apple from the palm of his hand and she says, “Thank you.”

She’s growing well, she’s about the size of an eagle now and she can speak the ancient language, taught by Kilgharrah and the wyverns, and some conversational English because Mordred constantly talks to her even if she doesn’t understand.

Technically speaking, all dragons should be in the Keep when nobles visit but Mordred knows the royals secretly like seeing Aithusa and Merlin and Arthur let her come with them, too. Besides, Aithusa is Mordred’s best friend.

"Where are the rest of the knights? Lady Elaine will be here soon," Lancelot says.  

"At the training ground. Shall I fetch them?" he asks and Lancelot nods

At the training ground, the knights are all already in their ceremonial robes of red but they have somehow taken to their swords again. They are just having fun, he can tell by the smiles on their faces. They're dueling with a young man, about his age, but he is taller and broader.

His muscles are taut against the fabric of his nice tunic, moving quickly against the knights' maneuvers. His hair is a dirty blonde, like a golden crown that has been left alone for too long, with tan skin that glistens with sweat as each blow of his sword progresses. Mordred wishes he could fight like that but he's working on it. The boy's eyes, as they turn to him by accident and Mordred almost catches his breath, are a deep green, glinting with a kind of mischief Mordred would admire.

"Um," Mordred says, suddenly taken aback, "Lady Elaine will be here soon. Lancelot wanted me to tell you that."

"Oh, very well, then, that's my cue," the boy says quickly. He bids the knight goodbye and hurries off.

"Who was that?" Mordred asks.

Gwaine chuckles and tucks in his sword. "Caught your eye, did he?" he asked and Mordred almost wants to blush. "You'll find out soon enough, twerp. Now, come on."

Mordred makes his way back to the castle steps, where Merlin proceeds to fuss over him like an old mum, making sure his hair is not that messy and his cape is put on properly. In a few moments, they all find themselves on the steps of the castle, Mordred standing behind Merlin and the knights positioned behind Arthur. They hear the horses coming and, finally, he sees two figures in deep purple on the first two horses and the guard that surrounds them, made of knights in simple armour with their own ceremonial robes of purple.

The woman, unmistakably Lady Elaine, unsheathes her veil and Mordred can see a beautiful woman with long, flowing blonde hair pulled back by leather. She's older than all the others Mordred's seen -mostly because most of them were youthful, beautiful princesses who came to offer marriage to either Merlin or Arthur, or in the case of one princess, both of them- and her face is aged from motherhood and wisdom but she looks kind of timeless. She looks like she can kick you on the training ground, though.

"Lady Elaine of Astolat," Arthur says, coming forward and bowing down to kiss her hand.

“King Arthur Pendragon,” Lady Elaine greets him. There’s such a strong sense of determination about her that it almost terrifies Mordred. “My kingdom appreciates your kindness in letting us stay with you.”

"It is no burden, My Lady, you and your company are welcome to stay here as long as you like," Arthur says. He waves his hands around Mordred and Merlin. "May I introduce my consort, Merlin Emrys, son of Balinor, and my ward, Mordred, of the Druids."

"They're exceptionally handsome, My Lord, I see the good looks are something to be desired in the Pendragon line?" Lady Elaine and Mordred blushes. She gestures to the other horse, occupying a small figure Mordred didn't pay much attention to. But now that he sees, he recognizes him. It's the boy from the training ground. "And this is my son Galahad, whom I love greatly, a product of an unhappy, shitty marriage with an ungrateful bastard of a man who I am glad is dead."

Arthur doesn't quite know what to do with this until Galahad speaks up and says with a smile, "She says that all the time, don't worry."                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

"Very well, then," Arthur says awkwardly. Galahad gets off his horse as Arthur welcomes the guard to Camelot and, of course, assigns Lady Elaine and Galahad to their servants so that they can rest before the feast tonight.

Before Galahad leaves and the crowd disperses, Mordred can swear he turned back and winked at him.

 

“Hi,” Galahad says to him one day when Mordred is outside of the castle, enjoying the summer air.

“Hi,” Mordred says back. He likes Galahad, he really does, but they’ve been so busy lately that they haven’t had the time to become proper friends. Mordred has his princely duties and so does Galahad.

Without another word, Galahad sits next to him on the grass. Suddenly, he asks him, "So, will you get the throne when Arthur dies?"

"That's a cheery question," Mordred notes.

"Will you, though? I don't know how these ward things work. I mean, you're neither Arthur's nor Merlin's direct descendant."

"Me neither," Mordred says, thinking about it. "I suppose, when I'm old enough, they'll decide and we'll have a discussion."

There is a comfortable silence over them and Mordred smiles because of it. All of the kids he's friends with are mere acquaintances Mordred can fool around with in the fields and play with around the castle. None of them ask things like these and he likes it. No one really talks to him like he's a real person, besides Merlin and Arthur. People always talk to him like he’s a little prince. In more ways than he wants to admit, he _is_ a little prince, with a servant and his own set of armour but he doesn’t like the weight of the metal half as much as he does the cloaks usually worn by the Druids. It’s funny how he still feels like he doesn’t belong here, even after he’s found love for Merlin and Arthur and the castle walls.

"Would you like to?" Galahad asks, breaking the silence again with his clear voice which bears a resemblance to someone who might be on the council of a war, making fast, good decisions. Mordred wants a voice like that, instead of his small one that demands no real attention. Galahad has many things Mordred wants, he realizes.

"What?"

"Rule?"

Mordred thinks about it. Thinks about having men like Galahad on his army of knights that would be under his command; to hold the gavel and to know that his word would be the final one; to hold a kingdom's bones in his hands.

"I don't know," he answers at last. He says it like he's tired of saying it.

Galahad doesn't ask why, he just smiles like he'll know the best and worst of Mordred's secrets someday. "Okay."

After he’s dressed Mordred’s wounds, he leans back on his arms and looks out into the summer sky. Summer in Camelot is his favourite time. Sometimes it’s warm and sticky when he’s in council meetings with Merlin and Arthur but, this, this is the best place to be in summer. Outside, with the warm air brushing against his cheek like a mother’s touch and the taste of summer kissing him on the lips. He’s never been kissed before but he doubts it would compare to this.

The trees sway in the breeze and Mordred mutters a spell to make the fallen leaves come together in different patterns. He doesn’t usually like doing magic in front of people other than Merlin, Arthur and Bedivere but, somehow, he feels like Galahad is different. He doesn’t ask for Mordred to do things, he just looks and hums a song under his breath as the leaves make out the shape of a dragon. Aithusa would like that.

“How do you like Camelot?” Mordred asks Galahad.

“I love it,” he says honestly. “It’s a different place and I love it. This is the first time I’ve gone out of Astolat.”

“You haven’t traveled at all?”

Galahad shakes his head. “Mother doesn’t like it. She’s quite overprotective but, perhaps, now I’m older…”

“You know the kingdoms, though, don’t you?”

Galahad shrugs. “Some.”

“Would you like me to show you?”

The other boy nods and Mordred finds a stick on the ground to draw out the map of Albion in the ground. He has memorized the shape of the countries, aligned with one another, and the large lakes and seas that separate them; the tips of the jagged mountains as drawn on maps and the sigils of the royal houses that rule the kingdoms. He points out Odin’s land there, that stands on top of an island separated by the Nemeth Sea and he draws Lake Alwyn to show where Camelot is from Astolat. He unashamedly circles known Druid settlements and temples with heart shapes because he’s proud of the triskele on his chest.

Most kingdoms are easy, he remembers the large towers and buildings of differing colours, with their sweeping expanses of rich architecture inside them and the rulers of the places. However, when he wants to describe the LeFay powers, he is stumped. Arthur doesn’t let him near those maps and Mordred can only assess so much from palace whispers and gossip around the lower town. Morgana has amassed an entire system based on her rule, ever since she recovered from the battle of Camelot and Morgause’s death, that much he knows.

He also knows that she’s conquered Essetir easily after Cenred’s death but now leaves it under the jurisdiction of a man named Lot, who proclaims himself King; he knows that she has most lands in the North under the palm of her head and some in the West and he knows that even, soon, Bayard will march under her banners. She has made a name for herself and has an entire empire built just from her wits and magic. They say her kingdom started with only a bunch of renegades, thieves and misfits, with oath breakers and pardoned criminals but here she is, one of the most mysterious and dangerous powers in all the land. She hasn’t made a move for Camelot since she started her reign and Mordred dreads it when she decides to.

“You’re scared of her, then?” Galahad asks.

“No,” Mordred answers sincerely. “I know people expect me to, especially because Arthur is, but I’m not scared of her. I don’t hate her. She’s…she’s family.”

It’s true. When he thinks of Morgana, he doesn’t think about images of her ruling from her metal throne, dressed in black; he thinks of her caring for her in her chambers, worrying and fretting about him. He thinks about her embraces that used to swallow his body whole with the amount of love in them. He was still small then. He must tower over her now.

“I understand,” Galahad says. “Sometimes, no matter what, you can never really hate your family.”

He must’ve been talking about his father, who married Lady Elaine when she was still a maiden, and took advantage of her youth. Mordred hates thinking about how Galahad must’ve grown up.

Yet here he is, beautiful and steady, and easy with his smiles when he gives them to Mordred.

Their friendship came fast after that, like the steady stream of the river they would visit on their days off. It took some time for his guardians to warm up to the idea but Mordred eventually convinced them to let Galahad accompany him to his lessons, all except magic ones which were private and held only in the comfort of his own bedroom with only Merlin to teach him.

They find themselves in each other's company as if they could not be without it. They both find excuses in each other's skin to lie to their parents and sneak away from the castle or at least from their royal confines. Sometimes, they hide away in the kitchens and eat off the scraps like they are simple boys because they would be normal and ordinary; or run off from the castle -never too far away because he knows that his guardians will murder Galahad if Mordred runs away too far from them and Mordred really doesn't want them to.

They begin a routine soon enough. Most days, there are lessons in the morning, training in the afternoon and leisure hours in the evening. Galahad goes to the library at night but Mordred spends his hours before sleep with Merlin, honing his magic. They begin to build open spaces for them inside their lives, until they're pretty much inseparable. Lady Elaine becomes one of his many maternal figures and Merlin and Arthur treat Galahad as their own.

The people of the court are, obviously, taken with Galahad because he's polite and kind and he doesn't speak out of turn like Mordred does. Lancelot, especially, likes him and Mordred sometimes finds them laughing over jokes he cannot understand when training is over and Lancelot takes Galahad aside to give him private lessons. Both Mithian and Gwen think he's a wonderful influence on Mordred and Mordred can't help but agree.

The both of them fill their days with writing in the margins of their books, sweat on the training ground, the presence and comfort of each other's family that has begun to encompass the other, as well; with laughter and friendship and a few adventures, as well.

The days turn away from them, then the months and two years pass.

 

The two of them turn fifteen, then sixteen, as the years pass. Galahad always first, then Mordred. They begin to grow taller and broader -Galahad not so much because there wasn't much to change anyway, there was always a kind of strength underneath his skin Mordred envied. Galahad doesn't change much, actually; he still has his dirty blonde hair that remains a mess on the top of his head, his face is defined with strong jaw and cheekbones, he already looked like a man before.

But Mordred changes the most. Through the seasons, he finds himself growing taller and Gwen sighs at all his old clothes because they no longer fit him as they used to; he finds that the girls of the court, those his age and older, seem to notice him in a way they never noticed him before. They begin to leave their subtle messages in papers hidden in his books or kisses on the cheek that he does not deny nor accept. His guardians and their friends begin to notice and coo at his naiveté of this new aspect of adolescence, of this weird romance-like thing that has plagued all of them.

Arthur wonders what his first love will look like, if she will be one of the court or not; Merlin tells him to be careful, though he doesn't quite know what to be careful about; Mithian gives him advice on how to court women effectively and so does Gwen.

"I don't understand what they want me to do," he tells Galahad one day.

"Well, you are the King's ward," Galahad says. "There are certain...expectations."

"Is that how it is with royals?" Mordred asks. "Are we meant to romance ladies and gents at a young age, just because we are supposed to do it? I want to fall in love because _I_ want to."

Galahad finds a comfortable position by putting his feet in Mordred's lap and lying down on the ground with his hands on his stomach. He looks up to the sky and Mordred has this odd moment where he doesn't know what he's feeling. It feels like loss but it can't be that. There is lightness where it should weigh him down and laughter where there are bowed heads.

"You don't have to," Galahad says, the oak leaves surround his head on the ground like an ivy crown. "I mean, your fathers weren't exactly conventional. They made their own rules and I suppose you can, too."

He's beautiful, Mordred realizes, with his words inside the mouth that tells him secrets, too, deep-seated childish desires that he tells no one else until it burns a hole in Mordred's heart to realize he is special enough for this. He's beautiful when he smiles and Mordred can liken to staring straight towards the sun because it's dangerous but he can't quite look away because of it and he's left in a daze when he looks away; or when he is running in front of him after a dare and he, for a split-second, turns back to look at Mordred and there's this fierce determination in the tightness of his lips and the calculating look of his eyes like his mother. He is beautiful just like this, too, with his feet touching his in a way that might make other boys blush.

Galahad is not like other boys.

"Galahad?" Mordred asks timidly although he has told this boy too many things to be ashamed of.

"Yes, Mordred."

"Would you let me kiss you?"

Galahad looks up now and his expression is like that of Merlin's when Mordred has done something curious; his eyebrows raised but his lips betray the small happiness in his heart, as well. "Have you done it before?"

"No. Have you?"

"No."

Mordred looks down at the tips of fingers where it's muddy and brown from trying to draw Kilgharrah in the ground. "Would you mind, then, if it was me?"

"I really, really wouldn't."

Mordred feels the heat rise from his heart to his cheeks where Galahad can see them, and he almost wishes he was better at hiding. He wants to ask how they are going to do this but Galahad sits up at that very instant and scoots in closer into Mordred's personal space until he can feel his breath on his skin. He takes this up like he approaches everything in life, like it's a challenge and he wants to do his best at it. He's a born warrior and Mordred’s not surprised in the slightest. Even through that determination and steadiness that Mordred can see in his eyes, his hands are nervous when he brings them up to cup Mordred's face. He is still a boy, too; Mordred forgets that sometimes.

Their first kiss is tentative, just a soft brush that feels like wind against his lips, but then he feels it -feels him- press against him. The hand that is cupping his face begins to stroke his cheek as Galahad finds his courage in Mordred's lips and so does Mordred. He tastes like the blueberries they picked this morning and he breathes them in like he cannot get enough of this.

And, admittedly, he can't.

The strong lips begin to leave his mouth, still pressing into him, but they find themselves fading away, to the corners of his mouth, to his cheek and jaw; and they turn into something even more dangerous. They begin to feel gentle and warm, welcoming and Mordred can feel himself melt against them. Lastly, Galahad kisses his forehead and it's so intimate and pure that Mordred wants to scream. Their kisses were like dirt; palpable and wet and they rolled around until they made a mess but this one was like the water they bathed themselves in afterwards. A comfort that flows through them and he wants more of it.

When the kissing is over, they lie down on the ground, hands intertwined. They tell each other how they feel and wonder out loud how such conflicting impulses could exist.

 

"Why do I have to leave?" Mordred asks.

Anger is rising up his veins and threatening to leave his mouth and fists in really horrible ways. It has been only two days since he and Galahad kissed and they have spent those two days almost in a daze, until they could escape in the evenings and find new ways to kiss, laughing and smiling throughout it all. No one knows, of course, but he's sure they will. But, now, his guardians are sending him away.

"You are growing, Mordred, and you identify as a Druid. This is a rite of passage for the Druids," Merlin tells him. "You must understand, this is about your people."

He feels guilt rise up in his throat. If he was to stay for Galahad, he would be forsaking his birthrite and that's not how he was born, nor how he was raised. "How long?"

"Six months, a year at most," Merlin says.

"A _year_?" Mordred asks loudly. "You expect me to leave Camelot for a year? My friends, my family?"

"Mordred," Arthur says in his King voice. "The Druids expect this of you. You represent Druids as far as the Camelot is concerned and this is your duty."

Mordred sighed and nodded. He excused himself from the throne room and walked through the halls, his feet as heavy as his heart. Soon enough, he found himself in front of Galahad's room and knocked three times the way they told each other to knock. Yet another secret they hid in each other, away from the looks of others. Galahad smiles at him when he opens the door and he almost wants to smile back but it's too early for that.

Galahad notices. "What's wrong?"

"I have to leave," Mordred tells him, stepping into his room.

"Why?"

"Druid...things."

"How long?"

"At most," Mordred says slowly, "a year."

Galahad looks like he wants to curse at the skies and he never curses. The anger subsides like the waves of the sea and what replaces is a calm resignation. "You will come back?" You will come back to me? Mordred can hear the silent question.

"Of course," Mordred says hurriedly. He cannot let one heartbeat pass without him knowing that.

Galahad stands up and looks at him. They have known each other for almost three years now and Mordred knows the crease above his eyebrow when he is worried, the subtle downward turn of his lips when he is disappointed and his eyes when he is starting to cry. He knows these broad shoulders, this strong chest, muscles hard against his hand when he presses against them, and the hands that he has touched and felt that are both gentle and steady. Galahad is full of oxymorons and differences and Mordred can do no more than drink him in and try to understand what they mean.

It is unfair that they barely had enough time to know each other a different context but he will be back. Mordred wants to swear by the locks of Galahad's hair and the green of his eyes that are like tall trees he could spend the rest of his life climbing that he will come back. Without Galahad's knowledge, he does. In their kisses now that are beginning to see a pattern of desperation and reckless need, Mordred swears that he will always come back for him.

 

The months pass by around him and he doesn't even notice. Mordred goes back to a Druid settlement two days away from Camelot and taught ancient rites of the Old Religion. He is treated in solitude because the silence is supposed to help with his concentration. Sometimes, in these moments where he is alone and he knows he is not being watched, he thinks about Galahad and, the first time, was ashamed that his hand found its place inside his pants, between his thighs. He blushed but he realized that no one would know. He’s a teenager, after all, and absence makes the heart grow fonder (and the cock grow harder).

The next time, he made sure to follow through as his hand started moving around his cock. He stroked slowly, thinking about Galahad's smile and swiped the pre-cum on the head when he remembers how Galahad gasps when he kisses his neck. He started stroking faster as he imagined how pleasure would look on Galahad, how it would feel if it was Mordred who was giving it to him, how his cock would feel in his hand. He came with the image of Galahad writhing underneath him on his mind.

And that was, to say the least, unexpected.

When he woke up the next day, he expected the Druid elders to know already and tell him off, to do something like that in a place of magic. But they didn't say anything. They still don't. He suspects they know, though. Old crones like these always know what young people are hiding.

Mordred doesn't mind the escapade much. He used to hate it, simply because he had to be away from home for a long time but he began discovering things during his lessons. He learns the ancient language for more than just spells but simply learning, old Druid rites of passage and, most of all, he learns more about magic.

Magic is more than just simple spells and concentration. It's something woven into his very soul and being. Magic does not exist for him just because he himself exists.

He exists because magic exists.

The Druids tell him about the deep connection of their souls to their magic. When he breathes, he should feel magic entering his lungs and spreading all throughout his body. When he sits in the middle of a field and he hears the sounds of nature around him -the gentle trickling sounds of the lake nearby, the soft hums in the air that make the branches sway and the leaves dance, and the sound of his own breathing that mingles with the air around him- he should be aware of the presence of something bigger than himself that is trying to talk to him through magic. Magic is everywhere.

Once you learn that, you begin to feel it everywhere, too. It becomes a part of you, intertwined in your bloodstreams and muscles and bones, underneath your skin, this is where magic hides and thrums with clear beats. It's beautiful.

The first time Mordred clearly understood it, he cried. The elders had put him in the forest, among the trees and told him to try to communicate with his magic. He thought it was a big load of crap but, soon, he felt it. He remembered how it was when he was a child, with his father, how it was effortless for him to move through his magic. He began to feel the wind against his bare skin and the grass beneath him; his own skin vibrating with gentle hums of magic and the sea underneath his fingers.

When he closed his eyes, he could see the fallen branches on the ground acres away, the snow-capped mountains of the LeFay kingdoms; the swimming fishes in the Nemeth Sea and the hunting bears in the Darkling Woods. He saw the ruined statues in the Valley of the Fallen Kings and the temple of the Triple Goddess with its shadowing rainbows; he even saw Merlin and Arthur kissing over their dinner meal.

It was like he was flying and floating, running and climbing, swimming and walking, all at once. He saw the bruised blues, welcoming greens, ferocious reds and oranges and yellows of the world, the royal gold and silvers; the colours all swallowing him whole and spitting him out as a fully-grown creature of magic, branded with the hues of nature.

The elders found him lying on the ground, trying to wipe away his tears.

"Don't cover up your tears, boy," one of the elders said. "It is a sign of your success."

Mordred decided then that magic is neither a force of good nor evil. It is a force of nature. Nature roars and hums; it sings you softly to sleep but also breaks apart your home in thunderous storms; it is inevitable and unreasonable but also necessary.

He wonders how Merlin feels, if he feels confined in the castle because his magic cannot truly run free but he is the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth so a few complications and restrictions must mean nothing to him. Plus, if he leaves and goes to commune with nature, he will leave Arthur behind and Mordred doesn't even have to be his ward to know that that's the future Merlin will never let happen.

Soon, it is the day he has to leave.

Mordred says his goodbyes to the elders and bows his head as a sign of respect. They give him a magical staff, Druid patterns and old sayings in the ancient language carved all over it, and dark grey robes that are similar to theirs.

"You have done us well, Mordred," one of the elders say.

"Thank you," Mordred responds with a nod. He feels older in his skin, somehow, as he says it.

He leaves the settlement and goes outside, where his guardians wait for him with an extra horse and big smiles. Merlin jumps off his horse and rushes to hug him. Mordred laughs against him and embraces him back. Arthur joins in, wrapping his arms over both of them and kissing the top of Mordred's head.

"So, I take it you missed me?" Mordred asks as they pull apart. Merlin holds on just a bit longer, though. Not that Mordred minds; Merlin’s hugs are the best.

"Nope," Arthur says. "In fact, we turned your room into a sewing room."

"You're horrible but also lazy so I know you didn't do that."

"What if we told you we used your room for a sex room?" Merlin asks, readying their horses.

"Then I will kick you both and will have to clear my schedule for the next three months because I'll still be vomiting," Mordred says, shivering in disgust at the image of his guardians having sex.

Arthur kisses his cheek but doesn't give him an answer so it would be best to just change his sheets when he gets back home.

 

As expected, there is a feast to welcome Mordred back into Camelot's arms. The knights pat him on the back and his fellow magic-users give him nods of respect. Gwen and Lancelot bring him in for a big hug, ruffling his hair even though he's fifteen now but he accepts it anyway because he misses them, too.

Arthur and Merlin haven't skimped on the feast, not even on the guest list. He sees Mithian who waves at him and proceeds to pinch his cheeks and hug him until he goes red; sees Queen Annis and her husband. He sees Tristan and Isolde raising their glasses to him, and he can even see, out of the window, the flying figures of Kilgharrah and Aithusa.

Of course, there's Lady Elaine and Mordred immediately looks for Galahad by her side but his eyes do not find him. Instead, he has to concentrate on his meal and make conversation with his guardians because he has missed them, despite what he's been saying. As the banquet continues, music rolls out in the form of a two women playing soft melodies on strings. It is this moment that Mordred looks up and sees Galahad.

As if he can sense it across the room, Galahad looks up at him, as well. Mordred's breath catches in his throat and his cock stirs in his trousers because Galahad has grown. Not in size but merely definition. The lines of his face that make up his jaw and cheekbone have been drawn in with a dark pencil, adding so much more depth to how he looks and, for a moment, he has the seriousness of a warring man. Then he smiles, the way he always smiles at Mordred. It changes his entire expression. His eyes grow bright and his teeth show; his entire face lifts at the sight of Mordred and it makes him weak at the knees. He has no doubt that if he was to stand at that moment, he'd drop to the floor because he has been away from this beautiful boy for far too long.

Mordred wants to stop this entire feast and run into Galahad's arms and melt in the silhouette of him. But he can't so he spends the next hour pretty much just looking at Galahad and ignoring his food. He smiles when Galahad spills his drink on himself because he's been looking at Mordred, too. But the most adverse reaction is when Galahad darts out his tongue to taste the grape in front of him and how his cheeks hollow when he sucks the grape into his mouth. His cock starts to harden and he really needs to control of this because he is sitting next to Merlin, who he's sure can smell sex from miles away.

Galahad does it again, without Mordred's knowledge, and Mordred wonders how he would look with his cock in his mouth, his cheeks hollow, his lips full and plump around the head of a cock and maybe his tongue licking up and down... Well, by then, he's just thankful he hasn't come in his pants yet.

After what seems like eons, Arthur points out the lateness of the hour and how Mordred should be exhausted by now. Mordred nods and excuses himself from the feast after pressing kisses on each of his guardians' cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Galahad excusing himself, too. Mordred leaves first, into the hallway of the castle and waits. He's alone, everyone else is still in the hall or asleep. The moonlight filters through the windows and when Galahad opens the door, it hits him just right and make it look like he's made of silver.

There's a small awkward pause before Galahad closes the space between them and kisses him. It doesn't feel like they've only done this for two days. It feels like they've been hungering for each other's heat and skin for years upon years and they have found a way to curve their bodies in such a way that people might think they were intertwined. Galahad's arms hug his figure, pulling him closer to his warmth, feeling the hint of arousal poking against his thigh, and Mordred smiles against his kisses.

This is not like their other kisses, that were exchanged in the sunshine or as the sun went down on their day but they could see the sun in the other's eyes, and Mordred could feel Galahad's laughter breathe into him. No, these kisses right now have a purpose. And its purpose is to get them both naked.

Which, you know, Mordred is entirely down with.

"My room," Galahad manages to breathe out before his hand, cold from the night, sneak up Mordred's tunic to grip at the warm skin there and Mordred gasps.

"Nghh, okay."

Mordred's sure some kind of magic is involved because he can't remember not kissing Galahad somehow but he also doesn't remember moving towards Galahad's room, like they're two messes just kissing throughout the Camelot castle. He laughs at it and Galahad looks at him weird.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. Just, kissing you," Mordred says as he reaches up to touch Galahad's cheek, "why can't I stop kissing you?"

"I've missed you so much," Mordred admits and something changes in Galahad's behaviour.

Then, he presses himself against him and Mordred can feel Galahad's erection now, fully hardened like his and Galahad backs him up to a wall, kissing him frantically. Mordred moans at the sensation of being trapped between the wall and Galahad's frame, and opens his mouth to lick at Galahad's lower lip, to bite down just a bit which makes Galahad groan out. Okay, biting is good. He's gonna remember that. God, this boy is beautiful and he wants him so much he's aching with it, practically shaking and he can feel his magic trying to get out of skin and touch a bit of Galahad, too.

"God, I can feel you," Galahad says breathlessly. "Your magic, you're positively thrumming, love."

"It recognizes you. I thought about you a lot while I was away."

"What did you think about?"

For an answer, Mordred brings Galahad's hand down to cup his erection through his trousers.

"Fuck, Mordred."

"I made you curse."

Galahad laughs as he begins undoing both of their trousers. "You make me do a lot of things."

When Galahad finally -finally, finally, finally- puts his hand on his cock, Mordred wants to scream. This one touch is going to destroy him, just the feel of his hand pulling roughly at his cock. Mordred is lost for words, he's reduced to moans and whimpers at Galahad's expense. Then, Galahad brings his cock in the equation and rubs them against each other. His hand wraps around them, stroking fast and rough, and it's too much. The feel of Galahad around him, around his cock, around his body, wrapped around his heart like he's been for a long time.

He is shaking and helpless.

Galahad kisses him on his neck and pulls once, twice more and Mordred's coming and coming and coming. His back arches against the door and his body goes flush, feeling his come on his stomach. He barely has time to register when Galahad does the same but he luckily sees his face. His mouth open in a silent 'o' and letting out an animalistic groan, his eyes closed as he releases his come all over both of them.

Galahad breathes in and out steadily, and rests his head on Mordred's shoulders. Mordred brings his hand up to stroke his hair.

"So, uh, that wasn't how imagined things would go," Mordred says. "You know, not that it wasn't hot or anything, because it was, but, I mean, didn't even help you out."

"I wanted to make you feel good anyway," Galahad responds, his voice soft. "We have a long time to do it right, anyway. Just, seeing you, and I just lost control, I'm sorry. I've been thinking about you, too, while you were gone."

"Oh my god, you shouldn't apologize for getting me off, you idiot."

"Good, cos I intend to make it a regular occurrence," Galahad says, smiling. "I'm gonna take us to bed now, my legs are starting to ache."

Galahad carries him in his arms, Mordred's legs around his waist and they fall into bed unceremoniously. There's a tenderness to the following actions, where Galahad cleans them up of their come and sweat and does up their trousers again; and tucks Mordred under his blankets and wraps himself around the other boy's frame.

"We'll do it again in the morning, okay?" Galahad says and Mordred moans into his touch right before he falls asleep.

 

Two mornings pass when Mordred’s stuck in this lovestruck phase in his life. Both mornings are spent waking up next Galahad, feeling around the sheets for a cock to grip or suck on because he never seems to get enough of Galahad’s feel, the roughness of his cock, the smell and taste of it even, and fumbling around the bed once Galahad wakes up. The weekend is for this, is for exploring and keeping secrets in the crevices of their seemingly small bodies so they won’t have to confront their parents until Monday morning.

Of course, Mordred still has his lessons and Galahad his own set of duties so they force themselves apart long enough to get along through those days until they tumble back into Galahad’s bed when the evening comes. He’s sure Merlin and Arthur know, along with Lady Elaine, but they’re nice enough not to say anything about it. There’ll be a discussion, of course, at least for Mordred but, for now, they belong in this bubble.

On Sunday evening, Galahad is exceptionally tired and can only manage a lazy blowjob –his tongue swirling around his cock as Mordred slowly fucks his mouth- before falling asleep soundly. Mordred, however, is wide awake and hears the wings coming through the window. He gets up, dressing himself in his abandoned tunic, to go to the window. There’s a raven there, with a small scroll tied around his leg.

On the scroll is an address located in the outskirts of Camelot, bordering on Lefay lands, and the seal that’s at the bottom of the letter is a red-and-black sigil: the Rowan tree on a black field. For a moment, Mordred feels scared but thinks better of it. Morgana wouldn’t hurt him and neither would her men. He hasn’t done anything.

Without putting much thought into it, Mordred dresses in some comfortable breeches, a jacket and wraps his dark grey Druid cloak over him. He kisses Galahad on the cheek before he leaves the room. He’s almost seventeen now, a man grown, and the guards won’t even bat an eyelash or tell Merlin and Arthur when Mordred leaves the kingdom just as the day is getting dark. Though if he sees his guardians or any of the people of the court, it’ll be hard to explain. He’s never been good at lying and if they knew who he was going to see, they wouldn’t let him see the light of day for weeks.

He keeps his hood up past the guards until he reaches the stables, where he picks a brown filly to ride. He rides to due west, to where Morgana wants to see him, and tries not to think about what Merlin and Arthur would say if they knew. They’ve tried their hardest to protect him for three years, from everything and everyone that might hurt them, but he sees no sense in telling them that Morgana wouldn’t hurt him.

It’s like what Galahad said; you can never really hate your family.

For some reason, Mordred almost feels it when he leaves Camelot’s borders and into LeFay lands, like the protection spells Merlin puts on his being every morning as part of his morning ritual just washes away and he’s in the darkness now, without Merlin or Arthur to help him.

The woods are thick but it’s not hard for him to find his way through the trees. They look like ghosts in the darkness; the branches long and haunting fingers reaching out to capture him. There were stories in the Old Religion that told about people disappearing so far into nature and magic that they became still; part of the forest itself. They would periodically find some semblance of life and reach out to steal the souls of children so they would keep living.

Trees part in the middle of the woods and Mordred sees it. It’s one of the towers of the ancient Kings of Camelot. This one isn’t in use because it lives right on the borders of Camelot and what used to be Cenred’s kingdom but Mordred can see flames flickering through the windows, signaling life inside. As Mordred beckons closer, he can see guards at the entrance, standing still and bearing Morgana’s sigil on their chainmail. He walks past them and they doesn’t even pay him any attention.

The inside of the tower isn’t magnificent or anything, it’s been abandoned for years but it houses a vast pavilion with a curved roof overhead, the markings and patterns worn with age. In the middle of the room, there’s a crude throne made of bits of branches and iron but there’s an odd beauty about it. There are guards at each corner of the pavilion yet right now, there is no one to guard.

“Mordred,” a voice breaks through the silence. “I knew you’d come.”

Out of courtesy, Mordred bows to Morgana as she begins to circle him like a crow. “Morgana,” he says.

Morgana looks him over, from his mussed hair and his lips still red from kissing Galahad, to the love bite on his neck and the belt that’s emblazoned with the Pendragon crest. All signs of a well-kept, well-housed boy. Mordred looks at her, too.

Her hair is swept to the side, neat and regal, though there are leaves and flowers in her hair, making her look wilder than intended. One side of her face is painted with Druid runes –Mordred can see the word for revenge clearly under her eye- while the other has the scar Merlin gave her during the Battle of Camelot three years ago.

Despite the whispers, she’s not wearing all black. She’s wearing various shades of purple here, with a deep shade around her chest, hips and thighs but there’s an almost transparent light purple cloth around her arms, acting as sleeves, and legs, a longer skirt that covers her almost bare legs. Her dress is almost indecent, with the amount of skin it’s scarcely shows, but the way she carries it makes it seem like she would behead anyone who looked at her in some way she didn’t approve of.

She has made everything of hers a weapon, Mordred realizes. Her words, her magic, and even her body.

“You’ve grown,” she says.

“It’s been a while since I last saw you.”

“Five years, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not.”

“You are well?” she asks softly, like a mother. “They take good care of you?”

“They’re family.”

“That wasn’t an answer, Mordred. Some families treat each other horribly.”

Mordred sighs. “They’ve been more than good to me.”

“I hear they call you Little Prince,” Morgana says, sitting down at her throne. This isn’t her real one, her proper one is in Essetir where she rules over her lands. Stories say it’s made of metal and blood. “You would be a prince with me, too, Mordred.”

“Are you asking me to join you?” Mordred asks. He can’t say he’s surprised.

“You’re a man grown, aren’t you? You should be able to make your own decisions out of what Merlin and Arthur say. They might act as your fathers now but you are your own family, in the end,” Morgana says. “Arthur says he’s on the side of magic but he only uses it for his own gain, much like Uther did. The second it becomes an inconvenience, he’ll repeat his father’s actions. There’s a war coming, Mordred, and I need you by my side.”

“I can’t accept your offer,” Mordred answers quickly. He wants to get back to Galahad before he wakes up.

Morgana slumps in her throne, almost admitting defeat. “Are you scared of me, sweet child?”

“No. I know everyone expects me to be but I don’t think you’re evil. I think you’re just…different.”

“You’re the only one who says so,” Morgana says with a laugh. She waves her hands, gesturing to her guards. “Even my guards fear me. As they should. I made this kingdom with blood and strife, war and dominance, every evil imaginable and every good, as well. I bought and sold my lands using my anger, using everything Uther told me was wrong with me. Let that be a lesson, Mordred, that your weakness is only as strong as you make it be. You can make it a weapon if you wanted to.”

“And that’s what you did?”

“It’s what I _had_ to do, little prince,” Morgana says, standing up from her throne. “Killing Uther was a method of self-preservation, that and keeping Arthur on the throne. That was when I could afford to be kind. I learnt to be cruel from the system that was cruel to me. It would be wise if you realized the same. That castle is built on lies and you best escape it while you still can.”

“Merlin and Arthur love me,” Mordred finds himself saying, like a child. _And I love them. I love Camelot’s castles and towers, its kind people, delicious food and fascinating customs; Aithusa, Kilgharrah and the wyverns, the golden dragon on the red background, the open forests and woods, the small seas and lakes; the history and stories, the fact that it saw me grow up, and Galahad. I love that it brought me Galahad._

Morgana leans forward and strokes his hair gently. For a moment or two, he imagines a life with her, where he would wake up to breakfast with her at her stone table and she would cast him motherly glances; where she would meet Galahad and tell him whether she approved or not. But those visions quickly disappear.

“Arthur is his father’s son and the Pendragon men never realize their mistakes,” she says, pulling away from hm.

“What mistake?”

Morgana smiles at him. “They shouldn’t be fathers to broken children.”

Mordred isn’t as different from Morgana as he wants to think, he realizes.

“I respect your decision, Mordred. You have made your decision and I can do no more about it,” Morgana says. “But know that you don’t belong there. You’ve been fooling yourself into thinking otherwise for a long time.”

_She doesn’t know me, she doesn’t know what I love_ , he thinks, and rage swells up in his chest without him wanting it to. He says his next words as an act of defiance, of stubbornness, like a silent curse word because just saying no would be too good for her.

“I give you my word, Morgana, when I have nothing left in Camelot, I will fight with you.”

Mordred pulls up his hood and bids his leave, bowing out. _There will always be something for me in Camelot_ , he assures himself. _I am their little prince._

 

Mordred doesn’t worry so much about Morgana because her words are empty. Camelot is home to him and he won’t leave it or betray it. He’s had many homes when he was child, moving from place to place like fugitives on the run, hiding in caves and behind waterfalls with only his father for company sometimes but this is different. These are steady walls around him that won’t crumble and people who love him.

So he lets it pass. He dons his princely uniform, the red and blue doublets and metal armour, and kisses and fucks Galahad into the bed until he’s a writhing mess because he’s a bossy bottom; he kisses Merlin and Arthur’s cheeks because they’re his fathers, and practices magic and sword-fighting. He gives his life another lease because it feels so much better now.

The people in and outside of Camelot look at Mordred and talk about him like he’s the perfect example of how Camelot has grown. He’s the perfect combination of lowborn and highborn; of magic and natural agility; of Merlin and Arthur, the two kings that united most of Albion under a single goal of peace. It’s like he’s a symbol, a beacon of hope, and he tries not to let it go to his head. He’ll feel too much pressure from it otherwise.

He’s just a prince, just a boy Merlin and Arthur decided to save, and he’s not about to be the mythicized perfect child of Camelot’s golden age.

So he lives. Right now, that seems like the best thing. Three years pass in a haze of happiness and steadiness and love. Almost twenty-one now, almost time to be official Crowned Prince of Camelot and Mordred can’t deny that he’s excited. He’ll be a proper member of the Camelot royal family now, the way Morgana never was because she was still a bastard when she took the throne. Mordred isn’t a bastard; he’ll be legitimized and he’ll wear the crown and see Galahad smiling in the crown.

Galahad is perfect, beautiful and his, every day he is living. All dirty blonde hair with smooth, languid movements both in bed and on the battlefield. It’s no secret that Mordred praises the ground Galahad walks but people don’t know Galahad feels the same about Mordred. Mordred might be the people’s prince but Galahad is the people’s hero, their godtouched angel. He’ll always have the tenderness and softness where Mordred has grown jagged edges from living in all the wrong places.

But when they’re alone, Galahad openly says into his skin that Mordred is the best thing about his life.

“My prince,” Galahad says now as Mordred pins him to the bed and fucks into him with quick, powerful thrusts, liking the way Galahad writhes underneath him. He’s practically begging and moaning like a slut but there’s still some kind of steady composure in his breathing and Mordred’s envious of even that. Whenever Galahad fucks him –which is rare nowadays because they’ve found out Galahad _really_ likes a cock up his arse- Mordred doesn’t have any grace about him. He fists the sheets and  
pushes against him, losing his sense of everything but Galahad.

“Come _on_ ,” Galahad begs, clenching around Mordred’s cock like a vice. Everything is a challenge to him, even sex. Always trying to up his competition.

Mordred loses it and thrusts into him the way Galahad likes it. Hard and deep with no finesse about it, just something both carnal and pure, until Galahad’s mouth opens in a silent ‘o’ like it always does when he’s about to come and he paints his chest with streaks of come. It takes Mordred just two more thrusts into Galahad’s heat before he’s spilling inside Galahad.

Living is great, when you’ve got something to live for.

 

In the autumn before Mordred’s twenty-first birthday and subsequent coronation, a mysterious man comes in Camelot calling himself the Green Knight, who challenges Gwaine to a series of quests. Arthur’s not convinced about this man and thinks that he’s going to send Gwaine to his certain death if he lets him go.

“He threatened the honour of Camelot, Arthur,” Gwaine says at the next council meeting when word of mouth reached the king about how Gwaine was going to take up the Green Knight’s challenge. “You’re the one scolding me about being a proper knight.”

“I didn’t mean getting yourself killed, you nitwit,” Arthur says.

“Oh, come on, I did fine for the twenty-odd years before I met you,” Gwaine says.

“You really want to do this, don’t you?” Arthur asks with a sigh.

“He said it was my duty. We all have duties, don’t we, sire?”

Arthur surrenders and lets Gwaine go. 

Contrary to Arthur’s belief, Gwaine survives every time he leaves Camelot’s castles and regales the tales of all his quests and adventures with the young knights, squires and whoever is willing to listens. He talks about mythical creatures and tries to imitate their voices as they attacked him; he talks about fair maidens and knowing the boundaries in which a man’s morality is made of but, most of all, he talks about defending Camelot’s honour, their code of conduct and their way of life.

Mordred listens to all the stories and wishes Arthur and Merlin allowed him to go on such adventures but he knows that they won’t. He’s too precious to them to be gambled away in a game of knight’s honour and fair maidens. Sometimes he wonders if he’s just a figurehead here, not really given any power to do anything. Maybe that’ll change when he’s a proper prince.

Towards the end of autumn, Gwaine tells them that he’s being given a final test but he is not to do it alone. He is to pick five brave men from the knights of Camelot to complete it. Out of the men he picks, Arthur and Galahad are included.

 

When Mordred was younger, whenever Arthur would go on quests and adventures and leave Merlin behind to guard the kingdom, Merlin had him stay in the antechamber in Merlin and Arthur’s room. It was closer to him and, that way, Merlin had someone around. They haven’t done that in a while but Mordred feels like Merlin wants him to stay there this time.

Arthur is in his prime, past his thirty years, and he’ll never get healthier than he is now but Mordred knows Merlin worries. Merlin frets around like a nervous wife and takes care of everyone, of course Merlin worries. So Mordred sleeps in the antechamber, because he misses Galahad, too. In the days of Arthur and Galahad’s absence, Merlin and Mordred talk about it. Over dinner or lunch, they talk about the men they love and secretly tell the other their favourite thing about them. He feels like a child again, when he tells Merlin that Galahad sometimes sings in his sleep, because he used to tell Merlin his dreams and nightmares whenever he remembered them.

Sometimes he told Arthur, too, but Merlin always leaned one side of his face on his hand to listen intently and draw out the imagined worlds in Mordred’s dreams with his finger, against their table at dinner or on the sheets of Mordred’s bed. Mordred should tell him, he knows, but he’s scared.

Mordred’s scared, too. It’s like he’s going mad. Slow but surely, ever since he met Morgana, it’s like she’s begun to poison his mind with visions and grotesque nightmares. He knows she hasn’t, she couldn’t possibly, he would know but that doesn’t make the nightmares any less worse. It was only once or twice in the beginning but they’ve come in full force now that Galahad’s not there to hold him steady.

Merlin doesn’t notice, though, when his ward wakes up in the middle of night with a gasp, from visions of people burned at the stake and stabbed straight through the heart with a knife. It takes him a while to realize that these aren’t visions of the future, he isn’t a Seer like Morgana is, but remnants of the past.

He asks Geoffrey about the Purge and Geoffrey reluctantly brings out volumes that Arthur couldn’t bear to burn for him to read. The people in his dreams are real, they were alive once, maybe when he was a boy even. He doesn’t know why he’s having these dreams, if they mean a thing, but he can’t stop having them. It’s like the knowledge has seeped into his mind and he can’t get it out of his body; like poison in his bloodstream that refuses to pass, that he himself refuses to let go of.

One night, he even dreams of Uther. In his youth, he looks like Arthur, with dark hair and a harsher silhouette but there’s no doubt Arthur is his father’s son.

_Arthur wouldn’t do this_ , Mordred thinks, as he reels from a nightmare where Uther executes a boy for having golden eyes.

_He loves me, he loves Merlin; he has built his family on magic._

All the while, Morgana seems to whisper into his poisoned mind, reminding him Pendragon men never realize their mistakes. In between trying to be as normal as possible and waking up to a world less bleak than its past, Mordred begins to wonder if _he’s_ the mistake.

 

He dreams of Arthur and Morgana, coming into a battlefield surrounded by mountains. Arthur’s dressed in his chainmail and red cape, Morgana in black lace. There’s a war going around them, swords hitting their opponent’s, bodies falling to the ground and there’s thunder, too, crashing all around them. There is motion everywhere around where they stand but the siblings stay still.

Here comes summer’s son, warm and welcoming with danger of burning you when you stand too close, and winter’s daughter, cold and unforgiving with the beauty of snow. The godtouched and the godkiller.

It’s a battlefield, the storm of war rolling around both of them, but Arthur and Morgana are unarmed. Then they look at him expectantly; Arthur almost crying and Morgana smiling sinisterly. Mordred looks down on his hands and he realizes he’s the one holding the sword.

_Am I supposed to kill just one of them, or both? Is there even a difference?_

Mordred wakes with a start, thinking there’s blood on his hands, and just knows something terrible has happened.

Owen comes into his room without announcing himself and Mordred sits up because Owen never does that. He prioritizes courtesies of the castle, manners above all else, and a good servant is only measured by his actions to his master.

“My lord,” he says in a grave voice and Mordred doesn’t even give himself time to dress, he just follows Owen out of his chambers and onto the palace steps.

There, horses are beginning to enter the palace gates with the Pendragon banner. The Knights are back, with Arthur and Galahad. He sees Arthur there, reuniting with Merlin, peppering kisses all over his husband’s face but there isn’t a hint of Galahad around the returning men. He must be late, Mordred thinks. Probably dealing with wounded men.

“Mordred,” Arthur says, walking towards him. He’s talking like Mordred’s glass and he might break at any moment. “I’m sorry.”

Then he sees it, when the last horse comes through the gate. The rider is motionless and the horse is being brought forward by one of the knights. Percival brings down the rider and lays him down on the courtyard ground and Mordred thinks he’s still dreaming.

The rider is dressed in red but Mordred doesn’t see any blood. There should be blood, shouldn’t there? He’s wounded, he’s dead; he’s everything Mordred isn’t. He always has been. Arthur tries to tell Mordred that this man died graciously, that he was chosen for this, that he was pure and gallant and amazing and other synonyms for the word lovely, or beautiful. He spews out a litany of praises but Arthur doesn’t know.

Arthur doesn’t know how Galahad hogged the blankets at night and stole his food; how he had a scar on the skin over his left rib from defending his mother from his father when he was eight and how he kissed when he was tired. Arthur doesn’t know all this when he tells Mordred and he doesn’t know it when Lady Elaine screams from the top of the castle steps. He doesn’t know it when Mordred steps forward –finally, after eons- to look at Galahad.

Lady Elaine kneels down and holds Galahad’s right hand –that hand was on Mordred’s chest, around a strawberry he ate for breakfast and held a sword, all just a few days ago- and Mordred holds his left –the one he used to pull roughly at Mordred’s cock or brush against his cheek when he felt particularly emotional.

The hand he’s held for eight years cannot grip back and his beautiful boy is now a beautiful dead man.

 

He falls in and out of reality. Sometimes he swears he can feel Galahad beside him on the bed, other times, he wakes up screaming, thinking he’s smothered in the fire that they burned Galahad in after he died. Sometimes, he thinks Morgana is watching over him in his chambers and other times, it’s Merlin, or Arthur, or the ghost of his real parents, or actual ghosts with misshapen faces and grey fingers.

He vaguely remembers Owen, whose arms calm him down after his particularly grotesque nightmares –people being burned alive, Galahad smiling with a bloody mouth, Merlin’s throat being slit in front of him- and periodically eating. He remembers yelling at Merlin and Arthur about something he’s forgotten now, and Merlin hugging him until his breathing returned to normal; he remembers Arthur, Merlin and Gwen circled around his bed, Arthur whispering, _my boy_ , like Mordred is still his.

Mordred used to tell Galahad stories, with long paragraphs and non-stop sentences with no punctuations, but the only story he can tell right now is a selfish one.

_I loved a boy and he made me mad_.

One night –he’s sure this happened, it wasn’t a dream, it was too real- Morgana comes into his room and embraces him just as he’s waking up.

“I’m sorry, my little prince,” she says softly, like she did before she wore black. She’s wearing red now, maybe because it’s familiar to him. Red used to be home.

Now, home is his bed, which he scarcely leaves. A bed can be any colour, anywhere. His bed could be black, if he wanted it to be, and with Morgana.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he finds himself saying.

“Come home with me, Mordred, I will make you better.”

A weakening part of him barely yells out, _no, don’t, she’s using you_.

Mordred falls back into bed and says, “Maybe later.”

So she leaves, doesn’t even say goodbye, and he doesn’t even blame her.

He walks around the castle like a haunted man and he doesn’t believe Merlin when he tells him it’s been half a year since Galahad’s death. But it must’ve been. _I’ve come of age and I haven’t even noticed_.

“When is the ceremony?” Mordred asks him. The ceremony to make him official Crowned Prince of Camelot, because their peace treaty with the Druids said that he would be first-in-line for the throne if Merlin and Arthur didn’t sire any natural born heirs.

“There isn’t one,” Merlin says and then quickly explains. “Not yet. We’re just waiting for the right time.”

_He doesn’t think I can become prince_ , Mordred realizes. _He thinks I’m weak and useless_.

His body is only the case of what Galahad loved and his mind is torn in two, between Camelot and LeFay, like he is the invisible border of their lands.

When he looks in the mirror, Mordred sees a broken boy and remembers what Morgana said. _They shouldn’t be fathers to broken children._

 “I’m sorry,” he says but Merlin and Arthur aren’t there to hear it.

 

He doesn’t talk to his guardians, especially not Arthur, and Arthur notices. Merlin’s company he can tolerate, he hasn’t done anything to him, but Arthur didn’t protect Galahad.

Ambrose tries to treat him but Mordred refuses, telling him love isn’t an illness.

Poor little prince, they must say, in the hallways of this castle that he used to love. Now everyone seems like a traitor. Morgana’s words bleed into him until he spits them out when he bathes. _You don’t belong here_ , she says in his head, while Arthur hugs him without any reciprocation. How it must hurt for Arthur, to know that his son hates him like this.

The only thing he still loves in this place is Aithusa and she can leave whenever she wants to, with or without him.

Owen, too, he loves Owen because he has done nothing wrong to him. Owen’s the one who helps Mordred recover his days, cleans his messes when his magic goes haywire, and feeds Aithusa when he forgets to. Merlin sometimes helps, too, but he looks at Mordred like he’s a wounded deer he can’t help.

One day, Owen tells him what Arthur’s done and Mordred marches into his guardian’s chamber without a second thought. He’s not even dressed properly but he’s wearing his rage on his sleeve.

“Mordred, I-” Arthur says, trying to defend himself, but his shield is flimsy.

“How dare you?” Mordred yells. “She was my friend! One of the last ones I had left.”

He remembers Kara’s smile and ferocity and almost cries right then and there. Did Kara do something that inconvenienced Arthur and he killed her because of it? It was just like Morgana said.

“I didn’t do it, Mordred, please believe me,” Arthur pleads. What a picture this would make to Arthur’s enemies, to see him beg to a child. “Son…”

“I am not your son,” Mordred says. “You stole me.”

He isn’t prince here anymore, they’ve made that clear, with no crown on his head and no title to bear even after his twenty-first birthday. He doesn’t belong here, he knows that, he’s always known that. How can these hands be meant to hold swords forged in the royal armoury, these lips kiss the cheeks of the King and Court Sorcerer, this body welcomed in the court? How can he be an entire person who is torn apart by loss and thievery? People taking and never giving back, contradictions in a red cloak and a dead boy.

He is meant to be in the wild.

This isn’t the Pendragon he should call family.

Owen’s the one who tries to talk him out of it. The word doesn’t reach Merlin or Arthur or Gwen, but Owen grips him on the hand and tells him to reconsider. He’s the only one who still calls Mordred ‘my prince’ because he isn’t anyone’s royal anymore. Not when he’s burned all his red capes and chainmail, let his sword melt in the flames that licked Galahad clean of his life and has hair as wild as his soul.

“My prince,” Owen says for the last time.

“Owen, please, I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t think you do, my Lord. Morgana, she-”

“Will not hurt me,” Mordred says. He pauses in his packing and breathes in, then out. “Arthur told me stories when I was growing up, it was how he was raised, and he told me about Uther’s conquests, how he stole Camelot by force. By blood and with an army behind him, pledging their vows to a tyrant king. For a while, the people called him Uther the Usurper and landowners refused to fly his banners on their property. But he won them over by being king, simply by doing that. He led armies and spit out commands and conquered. So why is Morgana demonized for doing the same thing?”

In the Westlands, they called Morgana the Conqueror. She deserves that title. Arthur never conquered anything. Everything he has, he was given. People love him because they think he’s a hero. They’re wrong. Camelot has no heroes.

He kisses Owen on the cheek and leaves the castle in the dead of night.

 

He decided to meet Morgana at her main castle in Essetir and now he stands on his mount in front of a tremendous castle. He’s so used to seeing castles in white because that was what Camelot was made of but Essetir’s castle is dark blue and black, like the night sky, and the windows give light, like stars. He has left the day behind and now he steps into the night.

Aithusa lands just as he dismounts and he strokes her gently on her neck. She gives a small squeak next to him, frightened by the new surroundings. Mordred knew Aithusa would come with him, though, she’s always liked him best. Though she’s bound to Merlin through duty and obligation, she loves Mordred and stays with him for that very fact. Once, when Mordred was little, only a few months after Merlin and Arthur took him in, he heard Aithusa calling out to him in that little voice of hers and he went out of his room in the middle of the night to keep her company in the Dragon’s Keep. Merlin and Arthur almost tore apart the castle the next morning looking for him only to find him in the Keep, sleeping with Aithusa, her wings covering him like a blanket.

There are guards at the door, swearing red-and-black as their allegiance, and Mordred just thinks that they would let him pass like last time but one of the guards unsheathes his sword to aim it at Mordred.

Mordred looks to Aithusa and says, “Fly, Aithusa. I will call when I need you.” she leaves, reluctantly, but he won’t have her here if all the guards just mean to kill him.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Mordred,” he answers with as much conviction as he can muster. “I have come to see the Lady Morgana.”

The guard steps back and nods, but still doesn’t let him pass. To no one in particular, he says, “The little prince has arrived for the Lady Morgana.” When he looks forward, his eyes turn gold.

He’s sending a message with his magic, Mordred realizes. There’s more magic here than there ever was in Camelot.

In mere moments, the double doors of the castle, decorated with a drawing of a dragon circling a Rowan tree, open and out comes a formidable-looking man with brown skin and a bald head. He looks dangerous, all dressed in grey and light shades of blue with a black cloak over his body, and a two longswords on each side of him. Even his eyes, dark as night, seem to look at Merlin like he’s a piece of meat.

“So this is the little prince of Camelot,” he says mockingly and Mordred feels the bile rise up his throat. He reaches out his hand. “Kiss the hand, boy, you are speaking to King Lot.”

This is King Lot, then, the warrior on the battlefield who spits out the blood of his enemies after slaughtering them. Some say that Morgana has taken him as a lover but Mordred knows the truth. Morgana doesn’t like _his_ kind of sword.

Reluctantly, Mordred kisses his hand and Lot laughs. He turns his back to Mordred and leads him into the castle. Though the outside of the castle looks dark and bleak and broken, the inside is wide and open. It almost feels like he’s outside in the summer, he can smell trees and fruits as he passes through the narrow hallways and gilded corridors, and the walls are all painted light, free colours like a soft pink of dawn and the warm orange of sunset. He knows the message here.

Morgana’s enemies and Camelot, especially, want her to hide and cower. They want her hidden under dark walls and a broken crown. Instead, she’s made her kingdom as free and as colourful as she can. A queen like her doesn’t deserve to be shunned away.

For a moment, Mordred and Lot step outside of the castle and into a separate dome built in the backyard of the castle. They go inside and it’s so dark inside that Mordred thinks he’s looking into the depths of the earth.

“The Lady will meet you here,” Lot says and leaves Mordred in the darkness.

For a few terrifying moments, he’s all alone with the black curling around him like a ghost, and his breath starts hitching. As an instinctive move, he reaches out to his side to seek out Galahad’s hand but almost cries when he realizes there’s nothing there anymore. Camelot has taken everything from him, he remembers.

“Boys,” a voice breaks through, clear and steady.

Suddenly, there’s light pouring through from the ceiling. Guards are pulling strings and levers this way and that so the curved ceiling of the dome would open up, revealing the night sky and the shine from the moon that lights the way for Mordred. He soon sees that he’s in a tomb. There are caskets and stone cases occupying bodies and paintings of women he doesn’t know on the walls. He’s in the presence of the dead. In the far end of the tomb, however, are statues of the Triple Goddess. He is grateful for the familiarity.

“Mordred,” Morgana greets him and steps forward to kiss him on the cheek.

“Where are we?” he asks, not returning her gesture of affection.

“This is the tomb of the High Priestesses. We couldn’t find all the bodies so having nine stone cases are just a mark of respect,” Morgana explains and starts walking towards the left corner of the dome. “Do you know the history of the Old Religion, Mordred?”

“Some,” he answers. Merlin practices it and keeps to their gods when he prays but Arthur is a bit lax in the following.

“Come, I’ll show you.”

So Morgana does. She starts from the far left corner of the dome, where the painting above the stone case is of a woman with chocolate skin, wavy hair and startling blue robes. The first High Priestess that was claimed after the time of The Three. Her name was Lucia and she was a warrior priestess, with a dagger as a chosen weapon whenever her gold eyes would seem insufficient.

She went on, going to each of the stone cases, and naming them. Some Mordred knew, like Caro, with her flaming red hair and demure disposition that would lead enemies to bend the knee just from her smile; Nimueh, who Merlin fought and killed, and Morgause; and, of course, Alys, because that was one of Arthur’s favourite stories to tell him. Others, not so much, like Qis, who had beauty that was unrivalled and who some people thought was the incarnation of the Mother Goddess because of how she took care of her army and sisters; Alwyn, the maiden with fair skin who Lake Alwyn in Astolat was named after because of her love for the ocean and seas; and Catrain, who rarely smiled but loved her people all the same.

With each of name she spoke, Morgana’s face seemed to grow heavier in grief. How must it feel, to be the last of her kind? Her sisters all scattered and dead, their bodies not even recovered so she could not see them for a last time. Mordred realizes he felt this way once before, when Merlin told him he was the last Dragonlord.

Merlin and Morgana were each the last of their kind, each of them turning cruel in their own way. In more ways than one, Mordred thinks that they were born to both love and hate each other.

By the time they reach the far end of the tomb where the statues of the Triple Goddess stood, Mordred feels his fear trickle out of him slowly. These women are nothing to be afraid of, these were his kin.

“Do you keep to the gods, Mordred?” Morgana asks, as Mordred looks on the loving expression on the Mother Goddess’ face. She protects the children, or so say the High Priestesses, but she let Galahad, the child of a warring woman, die.

“Of course,” he lies because inside his heart, where it’s dark, he hates the gods for taking everything from him. The Maiden Huntress is supposed to protect the warriors but she let the wrong ones die. Maybe the only one he should pray to is the Death Crone, so everyone he lost would have a good passing into the afterlife.

“What do you pray for, will you tell me?”

His prayers have changed, he realizes. He used to pray for Arthur and Merlin’s safety, for their love so it might never run out; for the people of the court and the dragons; for Galahad and magic. Little boy prayers. He’s not a little boy anymore.

“Galahad’s soul, so that he might be at peace wherever he is,” he answers. “And peace for me, too.”

“You came to me, Mordred, a boy ruined by a king who was ruined by another. You have never known true peace,” Morgana says, stroking his cheek lovingly. “But I promise I will try to give it to you.”

So he believes her, in this dome of dead priestesses and gods who failed him, because there’s nothing else to believe in.

 

The next few days pass without event. Mordred has servants again, to cater to his every need and call him m’lord, so he desperately misses Owen. Waking up involves him trying to figure out where he is and going to Morgana’s room, where she is lying with the latest girl she’s taken to her bed and he will wish her good morning like a good son would.

At meal times, he sits with Morgana at her stone table and she’s the one that talks and he nods and listens. Other parts of the day are reserved for training and trying to be sane and Morgana teaching him how to hate Arthur, as if he hasn’t learned already. But, most of the time, he feels the anger wash away to be replaced with indifference and emptiness.

If his sword is meant to pierce through Arthur’s armour like Morgana wants it to, then he’ll only smile at the blood on his hands afterwards.

One day, however, the castle is in disarray and even Lot is flustered. When he asks the serving girl that arranges his bath every day what is going on, she tells him that Emrys has come for a visit, like it’s a joke.

Mordred is too scared to go outside where Morgana has arranged to meet Merlin, so he just stands in the doorway of the castle with the servants so he might see everything going on. He makes sure he cowers behind the plump cook so Merlin doesn’t see him, though.

Merlin walks toward Morgana, dressed in his normal plainclothes, and Mordred can see that his eyes are tired and red, like he’s lost sleep over his lost son.

“I have come to retrieve my son,” he says confidently.

“Believe it or not, Merlin, your son, as you call him, came on his own volition,” Morgana says. She’s only dressed in her sleeping gown, her hair as wild as ever, but she seems to stand taller than Merlin. “He belongs with me now.”

“No, he belongs with _me_. Me and Arthur. We’re a family,” Merlin says, like a mantra going over and over in circles. All the while, Mordred just thinks, _I have nothing against you, I always loved you best. Please don’t make me choose._

“He chose, Merlin,” Morgana says calmly.

Three words, small and spoken softly, but it’s enough to make Merlin’s eyes go golden. He raises his hand to recite a spell at Morgana.

Merlin smiles for a millisecond, his mouth turning upwards in victory when he sees Morgana raising her hands with nothing coming out. Mordred feels his toes curl in anticipation and desperately wants to run away because he feels like such a child but something happens. Morgana laughs, a blood-curdling, nightmare-inducing poisonous laugh and her eyes grow golden. Merlin’s flipped backwards by the force of her magic.

“How?”

“Do you think I didn’t _earn_ my title as High Priestess, Emrys? That year I spent away from Camelot after you poisoned, I trained with the best and I kept getting better. Your tricks are nothing and you dare smile, thinking you’ve succeeded? Your prince doesn’t hate me as much as you do, Merlin.”

“He’s a king now.”

Morgana lifts his face up by his chin and says, “He really isn’t.”

Merlin breathes heavily and Mordred can hear it from here. In a blink, Merlin disappears into thin air but Morgana isn’t fazed. She walks to him and calmly says, “They will not survive me.”

 

On the eve of the proposed battle, Mordred rides to Camelot for the last time. He changes his face so he would not be recognized but he doubts the guards will remember his face anyway. Even now, when he looks at himself in the water, he sees that his face has grown gaunt and his eyes are tired, his hair a mess and his lips bloody. He looks grown up but he looks nothing like Merlin, the way he wanted to when he was small.

He looks like nothing like _himself_ , Mordred realizes. _I’m twenty four but I look so much older._

Mordred passes through without being bothered and makes his way through the citadel. How odd it is, to be back here, the place that loved him and betrayed him and ate him alive. Only this time, he’s the one that feels like a traitor. He lets the feeling pass as he goes through the castle gates but feels it rise up in his throat when he looks up to see the window of Arthur’s chambers open.

Arthur was his father, once.

Mordred pulls up his hood and breathes out a steady breath when he finally reaches the graveyard. He’s alone, thank the gods, so he sits down on the ground before Galahad’s crude tomb. He brushes his finger against the stone and almost wants to imagine it’s Galahad’s hand he’s touching but thinks better of it because it would not do well to cry in front of a ghost the day before you yourself become one.

“I dream about you at night,” Mordred says. “It’s a different world, like the future, and we’re in a garden or a field and you’re sitting down. I come up to you and tell you that you’re beautiful because you are and you smile and kiss me. You kiss me for ages and I forget everything else and the gods don’t matter and don’t play around with us and everything is okay. I don’t want to wake up because I fall in love with you all over again but I always do. I always wake up and I always think I’m the one who’s dead.”

He feels the wind brush against his lips and is reminded of that day in the summer when they were boys. He was wrong, then, because Galahad’s kiss was better than the summer.

Mordred stands and touches the stone one last time. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, because he will.

 

As he puts on his armour, he doesn’t fool himself into thinking he’s a hero. He’s a boy playing a man’s game, a chess piece in a game bigger than his being, and a lamb being brought up for slaughter. And the thing is, he doesn’t even care anymore. He’s past the point of caring or loving. If this is what the gods want him to do, then he’ll do it. He’ll be relieved when peace comes.

He was right. This kingdom has no heroes but he’s not entirely sure if there are any villains, either. There are just a lot of broken people.


	5. Chapter 5

_We forget we’re_

_mostly water_

_till the rain falls_

_and every atom_

_in our body_

_starts to go home_

 - Albert Huffstickler

 

There’s no use skating over it. He’s ruined everything again.

The day after Mordred leaves, his son’s old manservant comes into his room to announce that Mordred’s left Camelot. Arthur can see on the poor boy’s face that he’s been crying all night, with his eyes red and his hair mussed when, usually, he’s the very image of the perfect Camelot servant. The boy loved Mordred and Owen was Mordred’s first friend in Camelot. Arthur can’t imagine how he feels.

Merlin doesn’t believe it at first, his eyes are groggy and his mind a blur so he gets out of bed just dressed in his plainclothes to hurry to Mordred’s chambers. Arthur doesn’t even bother. In the distance, he hears Merlin yelling out Mordred’s name like a prayer and him letting out a choked sob when his voice cracked, rough from calling out to someone who will never answer back.

It’s that sound that makes Arthur get out of bed, appearances be damned, and go to Merlin’s side. Merlin’s distraught and he looks so small here, not like the husband Arthur has had for almost ten years. When he cries like this, when he’s defeated and scared like this, he looks like Mordred. Not the one who left, who abandoned his title and family; not even the one they took from the Druid camp so many years ago, but the one they could call son. The one with the easy smiles and quick charm, seemingly with Merlin’s eyes and Arthur’s stubbornness.

_What do you do when your family falls apart?_ Arthur asks himself when he wraps his arms around his husband’s small frame, trying to remember Merlin’s smile when they got married.

 

“He’ll come back to us,” Merlin says over dinner one night, where the chicken tastes like failure. He sounds like he’s reassuring himself more than Arthur.

“No, he won’t,” Arthur says honestly. He’s fucked everything up again. His son, his only son, he would’ve made Mordred prince one day, when his grief didn’t weigh so heavy on his shoulders but now that might never happen.

Arthur doesn’t blame Mordred, not one bit. If Mordred was the one who failed to protect Merlin, Arthur would hate him, too.

Everywhere he looks, it looks like he’s ruined it. His knights, his brothers-in-arms, seem just as distraught and inconsolable as he is because of Mordred leaving and his people mourn for the disappearance of their prince. They don’t know what really happened and Arthur’s never going to tell them. Maybe it’s easier to let them believe that their little prince is dead instead of a ghost. Even in Avalon, he can feel Freya distancing herself, like she knows something bad is going to happen and she doesn’t want to be stuck in the tornado when it happens. She still loves him, he can see it; in her eyes and the way she lets him lie next to her in her tree house, but there’s something missing. He can’t convince himself that there wasn’t always something missing in their shared death.

Arthur tries to carry on, for Camelot’s sake, because she’s the only thing that is steady and constant and will love him always. He tries to feign a smile in her walls and corridors so his people will not worry for their falling king and he makes sure to check that the castle and citadel is still standing before he dies again in his sleep.

Despite this, he still can’t sleep at night, even with Merlin’s warm body next to him. Instead, he gets up and clashes his sword against a stick wearing armour in the training ground, hitting it with such ferocity that his hands begin to bleed. At this point, he hasn’t been back in Avalon for days and he can feel its absence in his cold, dead heart. _I don’t belong here, I could never stay here for too long_. He collapses on the training ground, right then and there, and vaguely registers strong arms carrying him up until they reach his chambers.

“Lancelot,” he says, when his eyes crack open, seeing that he’s back in his bed. Lancelot smiles at him and kisses his forehead. “You noble ass, I hate you.”

“My wife says the same thing,” Lancelot laughs, hearty and loving, reminding Arthur of their youth not so long ago. There she is, Guinevere, by his side where she always belonged, and caressing Arthur’s hand.

Merlin is sitting up next to him and holding his other hand. He’s smiling, a bit sadly, but this is the first time Arthur’s seen Merlin’s mouth make any expression but sadness and indifference.

“Get some wine, won’t you, love?” Gwen asks Lancelot. “And the rest of the lads. If our king isn’t going to sleep tonight then neither are we.”

Arthur smiles that. Gwen turns to him and he can see where she’s grown older.

“No,” Gwen says to him, wiping his face from the blood and tears.

“No?”

“You can’t do this, not to yourself, or the kingdom, or _me_ ,” she says, looking at both Merlin and Arthur. “I’m not going to let my king fall off the face of the earth. Either of them.”

Arthur holds her hand tightly. “Guinevere, I fear you might be too good for me.”

“Yes, I suspected so a long time ago.”

Merlin leans into Arthur and kisses his cheek. It’s a soft brush of lips against the skin there but it makes Arthur miss and love everything all at once.

Lancelot comes back into the room with two flagons of wine and the rest of the knights, as promised. Without even another word, Gwaine, Percival, Elyan, Kay, Leon and Bedivere all surround Arthur and Merlin. Some are lucky enough to find a place on the foot of the bed with Gwen; Elyan pressing against his sister’s shoulder, Lancelot’s arms around Gwen, and Percival sitting cross-legged, looking like a puppy. Gwaine sprawls himself over the nearest chair, Leon next to him and Kay and Bedivere sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor.

Arthur wants to cry, seeing this family he made and that made him, but thinks better of it. Instead, he says something stupid like, “Let’s be young for tonight.”

Everyone seems to understand and Arthur realizes he can’t count on both hands the number of years he’s known some of them. They’ve all gotten so old.

Percival starts them off, telling them about the village he grew up in. they’ve heard enough of his stories to know enough, how Percival describes it as a village built on ruins of an old stronghold. He always talked about a tower, bricks falling apart and vines twisting around the spires that loomed over all of them reminding them that their home was not really home. It had been raided so long ago but they built houses over the bones of Essetir’s soldiers, forgetting the stench of war and replacing it with scents of spring and summer as the crops grew.

Arthur had heard enough of Percival’s life to know that Percival was the second youngest of six siblings, with a sister older than him. Tonight, he talks about his youngest, a boy named John but the villagefolk nicknamed him Crooke, for his crooked smile, his lips tilting slightly. Percival tells them about the time Crooke was six and curious about the crumbling tower of their village and forced Percival to come with him at the dead of night, swearing him to secrecy to not tell their older sister and parents. There they were, two young boys, one slightly larger than the other, with flames to guide them through the tower.

“I wanted to be an adventurer when I was younger,” Percival says now. “I could’ve just run with my family, exploring and hunting and never staying put and we would’ve loved every bit of it. Not bowing down to a ruthless king or being forced to live in a haunted place because no one deserves that. They would’ve loved being adventurers; Crooke would’ve had a fit over it, too excited about it.”

“How old would Crooke have been if he was still alive?” Lancelot asks.

“Nineteen. He would’ve been a man grown,” Percival answers sadly. “He probably would’ve found a nice girl to settle down with, too, he was a handsome lad when he was a kid.”

“My sister would’ve been twenty-four,” Gwaine suddenly says. “Her kid, nine.”

Gwaine’s sister had died in childbirth, Arthur remembers, after carrying a child she didn’t even want by a man she hated. Gwaine never really talks about his family. Arthur thinks it’s too hard for him, to know he left them like that and he just kept running until there was nothing to run back to.

No one says anything after that; it’s like they’re always in a perpetual state of shock and silence whenever Gwaine says something that isn’t light like he wants them to believe he is. So Gwaine just clears his throat and says, “I think Crooke would’ve been happy of where you are now, Perce. You are kind of an adventurer.”

“Yeah, I like to think so, too,” Percival says and he smiles at Gwaine, saying a silent thank you.

They all start telling the stories of their youth after that, as the night wanes. There are so many stories and tales and songs inside all of them, Arthur realizes. He could compile them all, write them down and show them to the world. _This is my court_ , Arthur would tell the people, _this is the family I made and the family that makes me_. Because these are the stories that matter, not the ones glided in silver and gold and lies in Merlin’s time, that people no longer believe. It’s these stories that are shared around family and friends, meant to make them smile and laugh. The stories that were real, that aren’t important enough to be legends and myths and whispers of fantasy, but important enough to tell.

Maybe the people of the land will remember how Arthur died in the end but Arthur will remember this. Being piled up together around a single bed, remembering how it used to be when they were children and forgetting that their hair was growing grey and hands less nimble. Elyan tells them a story about a girl he loved in the East, across the Nemeth Sea, who shone like a star in his eyes and Arthur can feel the love around them.

Merlin grips his hand tightly, his thumb stroking the soft skin there, and Lancelot kisses Gwen’s cheek out of adoration. Kay presses himself closer to Bedivere because that’s a type of love, too. When Elyan tells him he lost the girl to the sea that brought her to him, everyone holds onto each other, afraid they might drift to sea.

The darkness outside his window gradually grows lighter and lighter until there’s streaks of light coming through the glass. The people they lose make them who they are, Arthur realizes, making them count unlived years and scenarios, like little boys becoming explorers and sisters becoming mothers and adopted sons becoming princes, but they’re also ghosts. And like Percival said, no one deserves to live in a haunted place.

 

It takes a while after Mordred’s leaving when Arthur can finally say “I love you,” again to Merlin, like it’s a prayer. Merlin laughs at that, like it’s one big cosmic joke about how two broken boys found each other again in the wake of the destruction of everything they knew. The punch line is this: the apocalypse doesn’t ruin love.

Arthur drinks in Merlin’s laughter like sweet wine in the summer and almost tastes the cherries when he chases after Merlin’s lips. He marks Merlin’s skin with various ways he can say, “I love you.” in his kisses and tender touches, the rough press of his half-hard erection against Merlin’s thigh and the way he lays his husband down softly on the bed. It’s been so long since they’ve done this and Arthur misses him. He misses the landscape of Merlin’s ivory skin, the slight bumps and hills of his bones jutting out towards him; the way his voice goes rough and raspy when he’s reached a certain level of arousal, that little hitch of breath when Arthur sucks a bruise on his neck, the blush that forms around his cheeks when he’s undressing even when they’ve been married for so long.

Merlin sinks into him in a hurry when it comes down to it because they’ve been hungry beasts for too long. Quick and powerful thrusts, driven in with such passion that Arthur wonders if there’s magic involved. A kind of magic that keeps Arthur from crying, Merlin from breaking down and Camelot from falling apart at its seams. It’s almost like they’re fucking to save the kingdom. 

It’s like they’re fucking to stay alive.

“Iloveyou,” Merlin says in one breath when he comes. “Always. Just you. Only you.”

When Arthur comes a heartbeat after Merlin, he feels young again. He feels like Merlin’s just said his wedding vows to him for the first time: _when everything else has fallen apart, to me, there will always be you_.

Saying, “I love you,” doesn’t cancel out their unhappiness, or their devastation, or their depression when they think –or try _not_ to think- about Mordred. But, somehow, it makes everything look a little less dark.

Maybe Mordred still won’t be the one to kill him, maybe things won’t fall apart so soon; maybe they’ll just be fine. All he knows is that he can’t keep living like this; that he can’t keep doing this to Merlin. Merlin is what matters now, this boy who has grown up in his arms and his care. His sweet springtime king, with leaves in his hair and the power to make things grow again.

 

A man with brown skin and hair down to his shoulders, tied back in leather, comes into the court and immediately goes to his knees, bowing.

“My Lords,” he says, his voice in a foreign accent but clear and steady in its conviction. This man is a warrior, that much Arthur can assess, with his muscled arms and bruised face. He stands and Arthur nods to him so he can say his piece. “I am Addar, son of Caen, from the Goldstrike tribe of Eftboren.”

“You’re a long way from home, Addar,” Arthur says.

Ever since their quest, the Perilous Lands –now called Eftboren, a word in the ancient language that means ‘born again’-has been reborn because the curse of the Fisher King was lifted. It was like it seemed to have healed overnight, with crops suddenly growing and the seasons changing around them instead of the ongoing summer that plagued the lands, making it a desert in Albion. Soon enough renegades and refugees from all over the world began calling the place home and, out of these people, there were tribes born.

In Eftboren, there were no kings or queens, no autonomous leader that looked over the people. There were leaders in these tribes but that was it. Whenever he visited the Eftboren, Arthur almost wondered what the point of a throne was, because these people were still happy and safe without one.

“I bring grievous news, my Lord,” Addar says.

“Why come to Camelot, then? Eftboren holds no allegiance to any king or queen in Albion. It exists on its own, does it not?” Arthur asks.

“Perhaps, but my people are indebted to Lord Emrys,” Addar says. “Without him, Eftboren would still be called the Perilous Lands and we would be without a home.”

Beside him, Merlin blushes. Almost ten years sitting at a throne and Merlin still seems like a boy wearing a stolen crown.

“What news do you bring, Addar?” Arthur asks.

“It’s the Lady Morgana.”

_My lady, what have you done now?_ Arthur finds himself thinking.

“She’s amassing an army, sire. She thinks a war is coming. A war against you.”

“She still wants Camelot, then, even after she’s taken everything else,” Merlin says to Arthur. His vengeful boy.

“She has taken your prince, my Lord.”

“My prince left on his own accord,” Arthur says because he owes Mordred that much. He holds Merlin’s hand tightly to stop him from yelling.

Addar nods, as if understanding how sons are, even self-fulfilling ones. “My Lord,” he says and bows, presenting his battle axe to him. “If it comes to war, my tribe will gladly fight for you.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t,” Arthur says. He gestures to the guards. “Make sure this man has proper accommodation for tonight and food for his journey back to Eftboren tomorrow.”

Addar gets up and bids his leave, bowing to both of them.

Merlin turns to Arthur with a frown and asks, “What do we do now?”

Arthur sighs, slumps his shoulders and admits defeat to the fates. “We prepare to fight.”

 

Arthur hates giving war councils. There are no two ways around it. He hates talking about war and hates that it exists so much that he has to discuss not letting his people fall prey to it. But most of all, he hates that, nowadays, the reason why they’re increasing their strongholds and fortitudes is because of his sister. Whenever he signs off to another war decision like stocking up food and necessary things in case of a siege, or doubling the guards, or sending riders to the outskirts of the LeFay kingdoms for scouting, all he can think about is how he’s fighting his sister.

Not in the way that they used to when they were children, with wooden sticks and empty insults, but with battle strategies stretched out before each of their courts and weapons strapped to their own respective armies. _Sweet sister, what have we done?_

Some of his court isn’t as scared as he is, though. They’re lax and calm, they don’t think Morgana is a real threat and Arthur wants to shake them awake, make them see that the kingdom is going to break from this. Arthur’s dead, he knows how this ends. It doesn’t end well for any of them but Arthur owes it to his people to make the burn sting a little less.

“Her kingdom is made of renegades and misfits, repented killers and thieves. Sire, truly, what does she have?” one of his councilmen one day.

Arthur stares him down and answers honestly, “My admiration.”

“Arthur?” Leon asks.

“What do you see when you see her? The girl you used to love, a woman, someone to be overlooked? Do you know what I see? I see my sister, yes, but I also see an enemy. A fierce, bloodthirsty warrior, queen by her own right. It would be wise, sirs, if you did not trick yourself into thinking otherwise. I understand and admire your allegiance and loyalty to me and the kingdom but thinking Morgana isn’t dangerous or worthy of fear is borderline moronic.”

Even Merlin, who has found a way to smile and laugh and love again, doesn’t believe in the imminent doom that is coming for all of them. He fucks Arthur slowly and passionately like he believes they have all the time in the world when they really don’t.

One night, after Merlin’s found a new way to make Arthur lose his name by sucking his cock, and they’re both waiting for the other to get hard again for another round, Arthur deigns to ask why Merlin isn’t worried.

“Because she can’t hate you,” he says, stroking the small hairs on Arthur’s chin. He’s growing out a beard. “Everything you’ve done is make this kingdom better. You found a way to bring magic back after it had been killed. She has to see that.”

There is a small feral creature in the chest of his heart, growling and wild and hungry, trapped in metal armour and a man’s body that shouts at him, in a voice similar to his father’s the real reason his kingdom is what it is. The placement of the towers around him carried no other purpose than to gain Morgana’s approval, a silent plea to his sister to come home. Is that the truth? That she became the greatest enemy he had by crawling into his skin and masking herself in ideals that would make the love of his life happy for it?

It can’t be true, Arthur assures himself, as he kisses his way down Merlin’s body, rediscovering his favourite hiding places in the man he loves. He did all he did because of Merlin and because of Camelot, because she deserved better than blood shed by prejudice on her walls. As much as he loves his sister, he can’t let her have this.

That night, Arthur fucks Merlin hard, thrusting in deep and hard and fast until Merlin’s helpless and screaming. Merlin’s almost bent in half by the weight of it but he’s still ask for _more, more, more, Arthur please_. He comes inside Merlin with a guttural moan and lets Merlin know that he’s the reason Camelot is still standing.

“Mmm, thank you, love,” Merlin says, sated and hazy.

 

On a brisk spring morning, he’s shaken awake by Merlin, who looks suspiciously excited.

“What’s going on?” Arthur asks as Merlin throws him a tunic to dress in.

Merlin just smiles widely and says, “There are some people that are waiting to see you.”

As he walks through the castle, the servants smile at him, all happy for some unknown reason like something’s given them a reason to hope just a little more in the face of war. He likes seeing Camelot smile, so he welcomes it. He follows Merlin without another word said because he trusts his husband and there has to be a reason Camelot is smiling. They make their way through the main parts of the castle and, finally ending up in front of the double doors that open up to the palace courtyard.

“You ready?” Merlin asks and Arthur can’t help but nod.

He opens the doors and the sunlight almost blinds Arthur. He takes an adjustment period and, when he sees it, he almost wants to cry. There, on horses and on their own two feet in the palace courtyard, almost all of them smiling at Arthur like he’s a beacon of hope for everything Albion stands for, are all his friends. From the brown-and-blue banner of Nemeth to the ragged and worn clothes of the people of Ealdor; to the men of Tristan and Isolde’s clad in black and the dark blue robes of Rhea and her wise councilmen; the banner of the royal families of King Godwyn and King Olaf and the numerous decorated chest plates of the tribes in Eftboren; and some familiar faces who bear no banners like various commonfolk he remembers saving like Sefa, whose smile is as bright as the sun.

Most everyone who believed in Arthur and would keep believing in him are here. They believed in him enough to come here and fight for him and his kingdom. Through death and fixed points in time he couldn’t change, he never once thought he’d be this lucky.

Gwen comes by his side and kisses him on the cheek. “I sent word to our friends about our invasion,” she says.

“Thought we could come and lend a hand,” Elena says with her goofy smile.

Arthur can’t resist right then and goes forward and hugs Elena until she’s slapping him. “Ellie, you shouldn’t have come,” he says, pulling away. “Any of you.”

“Oh, you stupid, silly king,” Elena says. “To hell with that.”

 

Gwen starts giving out everyone their jobs for the attack and by noon, everyone’s busy trying to save their half of Albion. It doesn’t lessen Arthur’s gratification though because, everywhere he turns, there are people who seem to be indebted to him after his years on the throne. Hunith gives him a big, solid hug and make his favourite dish come dinnertime; King Olaf slaps him on the back so hard he almost chokes but the other king just laughs at his pain (Arthur’s never going to get how Vikings work); and Sefa, sweet Sefa who’s grown so much, kisses his cheek and tells him he looks handsome.

“Surprised to see me?” Mithian says, coming up to him. She’s dressed in simple attire, with a blue tunic and matching long skirt, but she looks like a queen. King Rodor fell ill last winter and officially bequeathed Nemeth to his daughter, making her Queen and Lady of the East.

“I’ve grown not be surprised when you just show up, Mithian,” Arthur says, but fondly.

A strapping young man with a helm covering half his face stands next to Mithian, no older than eighteen, dressed in traditional Nemethan armour, though his chest plate betrays his higher stature than the rest of the common soldiers. It’s gold with blue and silver chasings that make out the eagle of Nemeth’s banner. He removes his helm and Arthur sees that his face is just as note-worthy as his physique, with his sharp jawline and chiselled features but also his striking red hair and brown eyes like Mithian. 

“Sam?” Arthur asks.

He nods and bows his head. “Hello, Arthur.”

“When did you grow up?” Arthur asks because, last time he saw Prince Sam, he was still this gangly, thin boy with red hair and wide smile. At least the smile hasn’t changed.

“Not sure, my liege lord, but it was past time that I did, don’t you think?” Sam says with a smirk.

Arthur turns back to Mithian and says, “You’re not supposed to be here, Mithian. It’s not safe for a queen to leave her kingdom like this.”

“My stepmother is acting as regent quite splendidly and besides,” Mithian gestures to her brother, “Morgana can keep her soldiers, I’ve got the best warrior in Nemeth by my side.”

“You’re going to need all the friends you can get, sire,” Sam says.

Arthur nods, of course, because he has to keep up the pretence but his mind is echoing with what Gaius once said: “Our enemies are just friends we’ve angered.”

 

There’s a visible line between the LeFay and Camelot encampments. The two halves of Albion separated in two by siblings with differing opinions.

When Leon mentions Camlann, Arthur almost wants to laugh. They say Morgana’s gathering forces and armies large enough to hurt them where it hurts and they’ve found refuge on the border. The lands surrounding Camlann are barren; only steep hills and stony mountains, grey and black whenever they turn their heads. Arthur has to wonder if the gods have picked this place for him to die because it already feels like death.

They make camp in a large clearing with a tall mountain in front of them, acting as a wall, like a line of sorts between the warring forces. There’s now a visible line between the LeFay and Camelot encampments. The two halves of Albion separated in two by siblings with differing opinions. He can almost see his lands being divided; one half by red and gold and the other in black and red.

It’s already late afternoon after they’ve put up all their tents and all his men seem to say among themselves, “We’ve planned enough, now all we can do is fight.” They haven’t lost any kind of hope, it seems. They all make sure their armour is polished and ready for the fight but they don’t forget to smile at people passing by. Everyone seems to have taken up the unspoken pact to make sure no one feels their impending doom. Arthur is exempted from this. He can pretend and sing songs however much he likes but he knows what Camlann means. He’s lived this before and he’s seen enough of Merlin’s time to know what the commonfolk say. He’ll love while he can but he knows the defining red of this battle won’t be on the LeFay and Camelot banners, but the blood on the battleground.

Mithian’s told him her plan, to confront Morgana before the battle and kill her if there isn’t any other way but Arthur’s refused her. He knows what he’s going to do and he doesn’t need her telling him he’s wrong.

“I can’t do it,” Arthur said.

“Why not?” Elena asked, eyebrows raised. “She-”

“I know what she did. She’s still my sister,” Arthur said and turned to Mithian. “Imagine if it was Sam, or Ellie, even.”

“That’s different,” Mithian said adamantly.

“It’s really not,” Arthur said. “I used to think she was the greatest person, too.”

Elena was the one to nod and say, “Okay.”

She, Mithian and Sam are smiling at him now, telling him they understand, even if they don’t know yet what’s going to happen tomorrow. Merlin is around the campfire with them and the knights, telling them ancient stories of the Old Religion and Arthur is struck with the strongest feeling of nostalgia. Is it a form of nostalgia if you look at your former life and see how much you’ve changed? Or is there another word for it, the way he can see the small differences in his worlds and lives and love every moment of it?

Days before his death, he might’ve seen this sight, all of them gathered around the glow of the fireplace like they usually are, sharing stories and passing along foodstuffs like children and Arthur would’ve smiled fondly then, too. He notices the changes, though. Those taken by death in his first lifetime –Lancelot and Elyan- are here, Gwen’s fingers are intertwined with Lancelot’s as they should’ve been before and Merlin, his preterhuman king, has his fingers dancing around the flame, making shapes out of the fire; an open display of magic.

He doesn’t look scared or anxious, instead he’s smiling as he describes the first dragon known to man to the people listening. If this is going to be Arthur’s legacy –a bunch of loved people around a fireplace listening to stories of magic- then maybe dying won’t be so bad.

Arthur's heard his names. He has quite a lot. Cymry's fair son, the Pendragon of Britain, the Summer Lord, and the Once and Future King. Oh, how people must think he never existed because of how he was named and how the world brought him up and he doesn't blame them. Heroes like that only existed in songs. Arthur wishes they knew, all the people in Merlin's time, that he wasn’t that special, that he wasn't a song; that the only song that mattered to him was the one that was sung by Merlin whenever he spoke.

They wouldn't sing Merlin's name, Arthur knew, not in the way it deserved to be sung but he wishes there was a story or song somewhere. Somewhere in the quays near the sea where the ships stopped to trade foodstuffs and stories, or the large deserts and barren lands, or a small house with a red door; where they would know that, without Merlin, Camelot would've fallen a long time ago. And they knew, deep down, that, in another time and place, it already did.

Merlin is a star, blinding and swirling in the galaxies that these men in this time know nothing about, he is ethereal and otherworldly and dangerous. He has entire worlds underneath his skin, with solar systems and suns and moons, an entire kingdom inside him because he ate it whole. _A monster, my boy is, and I love him_. This kingdom might burn but Merlin was already a flame.

In the midst of dozens of differing prophecies and ancient words, legacies and legends, people seem to forget that Merlin is a king, too. The king that became one by making Arthur fall in love with him, yes, but that’s not just it. Merlin was a king long before he came to Camelot. His name was written in the stars and he coughed up stardust and the world’s mysteries as a child. His magic gave him an invisible crown and his people, the people of the Old Religion, gave him his real one, one he could properly touch. Merlin is a ruler and a citizen, a leader and a follower, a powerful man and a selfless one, but, above all; he is a messiah to his people. People shouldn’t forget that, ever.  Arthur never could.

Merlin was a king when he was a child and he’ll be a king when he’s an old man, untouched by time. He’ll know what to do when Arthur’s dead. He’ll know that his kingdom doesn’t just span Camelot, or Albion, or Arthur’s body; it spans the world and the universe. The stars and the suns and moons, the entire space in which he occupies because he’ll know –Arthur will make sure he knows- that he’s going to be the first legend who is a man, too. The first myth to be real.

For a sudden moment of fear, Arthur knows Merlin can’t lose this. These people around the fire and the people who think him king and messiah to his own people. Arthur might die before the battle’s end but Merlin won’t. Merlin will stay and stay alive but he can’t have a ruined kingdom in his wake. If Arthur’s going to defend anything, it’s going to be Camelot. Because Camelot deserves Merlin and Merlin deserves Camelot, too.

As night falls and the singing slows to a slow hum in each other’s tents, Merlin guides him back to their tent and kisses him slow like he’s telling him ancient stories and secrets with each press against Arthur’s lips.

They go to sleep like they always do, wrapped in each other and smell of sex and sweat, and Arthur’s heart aches with a sharp pang because he might not have this again for thousands of years. He waits until Merlin’s asleep before he unwraps himself of his husband’s body and dresses himself. It’s past midnight so all his lads and ladies have gone to sleep because tomorrow is an important day. There will only be a few hedgeknights or squires guarding the place and Arthur’s still king so they’ll let him pass through the encampment without much worry.

He pulls up the hood of his cloak anyway and moves around the tents until he’s teetering on the border between the LeFay and Camelot encampments. Arthur breathes in deeply and takes another step, marvelling in the feeling that the world hasn’t ended around him yet. The guards are still as stone as he moves past them and Arthur immediately knows why. They know he’s going to be dead soon but, if they’re the ones that try to kill him, they’ll be dead first. Arthur is Morgana’s kill.

The camp is lively even when the night has fallen. There are bawdy singers and kisses shared between the guards and knights –men and women alike- before doomsday when the morning comes; the tents are made of fine canvas and he can smell the scent of roasting game over the fire. Everything is so alive here, stitched together with magic and songs, that Arthur feels a pang of jealousy. Morgana has built her kingdom from nothing, like their father did, and now it’s a kingdom that prides itself of openness and not being afraid.

It’s not hard to find Morgana’s tent in this mess. It’s the most lavish one. The cloth that makes the tent is a deep shade of red and he can see a fire burning inside it. His sister was never one to shy away or be hidden like a shameful secret. Everything she does as queen is an act of showing everyone that she’s here and won’t back down until what she desires is hers.

There are no guards around her tent and Arthur finds that curious but he goes inside the tent anyway. He finds the inside of the tent less alive than its encampment; the fires lit dimly and the air of drowsiness around him.

“Morgana,” he calls out but it comes back empty and silent.

“Arthur,” she says, coming into view. She doesn’t look like a queen here, she looks tired and exhausted with red-rimmed eyes, like life has taken so much from her. In a simple night gown of a light blue, she looks vulnerable. “I must admit, I was wondering when you’d come. I even put the guards on rest for the night, thinking you would kill them anyway.”

“I’m not here to kill anyone,” Arthur says and pulls down his hood so she can see him.

“Not even me?”

“Especially not you.”

Morgana looks taken aback. “Then why?”

“I’ve come for peace, Morgana. I don’t want this war, I don’t want my people to die. You will have your kingdom and I will have mine, and we’ll agree not to harm each other unless provoked.”

“You provoked me a long time ago, it’s a miracle I’ve let you live this long, brother,” Morgana says, running her fingers along her desk until they catch a silver dagger. The one he gave her for her birthday years ago.

Against his better judgement, he touches the hilt of his sword by his side.

“You don’t trust me either, Arthur. You might not want this war but don’t deny that you want to bring me back in chains. I’m your enemy, aren’t I?” Morgana says with a smile. “That’s what Uther always told you and it’s what your beloved husband continues to tell you. You’re never going to love me like you used to and I’m never going to trust you again. This was inevitable.”

Morgana raises her dagger and Arthur moves quickly. He clashes down his sword on her dagger, unknowingly stripping them of their titles. He is not a king, not a ruler nor is she the witch, the high priestess. They are children, battling on a playground that grew from when they were younger, this is their basic nature. Pitted against each other in a game of sweat and chases, metal and agility, they are children. The children of Uther Pendragon, fierce and hungry for their own loves.

Arthur breathes out, looking down on Morgana and retreats.

“Then you leave me no choice,” Arthur says.

“It’s sad how you lived your entire life thinking you actually one,” Morgana says.

Is that what she wants him to be? A falling, crumbling king hidden behind a ruined paragon and a mythicized name; a child whose entire life and subsequent death was planned out for him until the very last drop of blood? Maybe she’s right.

He leaves the camp swiftly and finds his own in a state of worry. Everyone seems to have just woken up, shook out of their sleep by news.

“What’s happened?” Arthur asks.

“Arthur,” Leon says. “Word from Camelot.”

“What?”

An envoy from Camelot steps forward, blood on his helm and chest plate, and when he removes his helm, Arthur just sees a boy.

“There were too many of them, sire,” the young man stutters. “We couldn’t stop all of them, not when the strongest fleet was here. The citadel’s been taken.”

“By who?” Leon asks. “Morgana?”

“Lot. Lot and a young knight named Constantine.”

“Any survivors?” Arthur asks.

“Not many, sire, your men are scattered and…”

“What?”

“King Emrys’ mother, my Lord,” the young knight says. “Lady Hunith is dead.”

Arthur almost feels his heart stop for a moment or two and looks at Leon with a grave expression on his face. “Has anyone woken Merlin yet?” he asks.

“No, it’s just us,” Leon says.

“Good, I’ll be the one to tell him.”

“Sire, what do we do now?” the envoy asks.

“Take as many men as you can from here and go back to Camelot to protect its citizens. That should be sufficient until we return. Make sure to tell my people, the children especially, to not be afraid.”

The young knight bows and bids his leave.

 

Death isn’t a novelty experience anymore. The battle doesn't matter anymore. He’s felt all of this before, how he can feel every part of his body grow numb and still one by one, like they’ve given up trying to fight the pain. The pain is there, though, stinging and hurtful but his dead soul makes it feel like only a slight annoyance. The real pain comes from knowing his killer is dying in front of him by a wound Arthur didn’t inflict on him.

Mordred looks so much like a ghost right before he’s dying, so much older and so much more war-torn than Arthur would like his son to be.

“Who did this to you?” Arthur asks, his hand pressing against his bloody front.

“I did it,” Mordred says roughly and subsequently breaks his heart. There’s blood coming from his mouth now, as he smiles. “I knew…I knew I was being used. I didn’t have a choice. I had to-I had to do this and I know I couldn’t control anything in my life. But this. I could control this. This was _my_ choice. The only one I could ever make.”

“Mordred,” Arthur says, stroking his hair.

“Tell them you killed me, okay?” Mordred says. “You deserve it.”

 “Okay,” Arthur says, as Mordred stills in his arms and Arthur can feel a little more pain coming through his wound. Maybe it was always to be end this way, son killing father, but Mordred was right. There are some choices that are theirs. Their deaths, and how they take it, and who gets to hold them when they’re dying. “Goodnight, son.”

He gets up, staggers a bit, and tries to find Merlin in the rubble. His eyes sting from tears when he looks at his dying or dead men, knowing he can’t help them either way. He tries to remember their last words, or the last words he remembered them saying. Percival said, “Look out,” before an arrow pierced through his armour. Gwaine’s last words were a challenge: “Is that the best you can do?” Lancelot had shouted Gwen’s name right before he died. It reminded Arthur about the legend of Alys and Sadon. He wondered if he could get Merlin to plant twin trees in the rubble for Lancelot and Gwen.

Hunith told him to be careful, Sam asked, “Will you help me with my armour? I’m still a fool about this,” but the armour still didn’t work as well in the battlefield and Vivian said, “Good luck,” at the encampment before a rogue envoy slit her throat, destroying her pretty dress. He doesn’t know where Leon is, or Kay or Bedivere, Elyan or Gwen, Mithian or Elena, but he tries to remember their faces as the pain gradually encompasses his entire being. This really is death coming for him. Death wants him to know how much it really hurts.

Arthur is collapsing when he remembers that Mithian and Elena died on the battlefield, one of the earliest deaths, protecting each other and holding hands when the lightning struck. Mithian's last words were great. "I am Queen Mithian of Nemeth," she said. "Eagle of Springtime, trueborn daughter of the late King Rodor and friend to Kings Merlin and Arthur and _you do not fear me_." He passes out, thinking he’s heard Gwaine’s laugh in the silence.

 

He wakes up again in the Camelot encampment, surrounded by the survivors. Leon and Bedivere and Gwen. Kay, gone; Elyan, dead.

“Where’s-?” Arthur asks.

“I’m here,” Merlin says, coming up beside him. He holds his hand, strokes the skin there gently. “You’re gonna be fine. We're going to take you to Avalon Lake. There are ancient powers there that can cure you. You're going to be alright."

"I believe you," Arthur says and the pain takes him again.

 

Arthur is a heavy heart to carry all to the lake and he doesn’t make it any easier for Merlin; he keeps falling down and having to hold on to Merlin’s small and strong frame for support. He feels so frail and old, older than he’s ever felt. The great ones never make it to forty. They never have time to start families or realize their true potential. They die unfinished.

He’s lucky. He got to finish his story to the best of his ability.

The waves are getting high but Merlin’s trying to get him to hold on to every last vestige of his life. He tells Arthur stories and adventures of their life together. That time they fought the Questing Beast when they were mere boys; the time they fought their first battle together with no pretences, Merlin wielding his magic and Arthur his sword and Merlin even tells him about the first time they saw Mordred as their son. Merlin’s crying and laughing, trying to find steady ground somewhere in their shared years and Arthur can only do so much to console him.

There’s no point anymore. Arthur’s not scared for himself; he’s been here before. Merlin hasn’t. Every time Arthur dies, Merlin will always feel it more.

On his death bed, he hears whispers of how the Saxons carried the dead body of their prince with an ivy crown on his head to the pyre where he burned. Arthur thinks Mordred deserves that, at least. A proper burial.

By some miracle, they find themselves at the shore of Lake Avalon a full day after Camlann. It looks exactly the same. Some things never can change. The betrayal, the deaths and the lake that would welcome them all in the end.

Arthur falls back again, this time, all the way to the ground and Merlin’s there to catch him. Stupid, silly old king, who needs his husband to fight his battles.

“It’s too late, Merlin,” Arthur says because there’s so much pain now. So much. Death is fierce this time. “It’s-”

“No,” Merlin says and cradles Arthur’s head in his lap like a child. “No, it’s not. We can still make it.”

“What do we have, Merlin? The spirits aren’t going to listen to us. The old gods have decided. Everything…everything was decided. It’s too late. I’ve overstayed my visit. But we did good, didn’t we?”

“What about that time-” Merlin starts again but Arthur stops him.

“What about that time we realized we were meant for each other?”

Merlin smiles, sadly and stupidly. “I realize that every day of my life. There’s a reason to think that every day I’m with you.”

“What about today? What made you realize it today?”

“This,” Merlin says and holds their hands together. His are stained with Arthur’s blood and Arthur’s stained with Merlin’s.

“Don’t live the rest of your life alone, Merlin.”

“There won’t be anyone else but you.”

“And I wouldn’t want there to be but,” Arthur reaches up and brushes a tear off Merlin’s face, “that doesn’t mean you have to be alone.”

There’s a shuffling in the trees and Merlin goes to rigid behind him. “Don’t touch him,” he says and Arthur knows who it is.

“Let her,” Arthur says, gripping on his wrist with everything he has left.

Morgana comes up next to him and holds his hand. To some extent, he hoped she would come to him in the end. For the first time, she looks horrible; a distorted kind of fairytale with her raven hair and lips red as blood, white skin going paler and paler because he can see so clearly that she’s dying, too.

“Well, I think the gods heard you,” Merlin says in between crying.

On the horizon, Arthur can see a small boat coming their way, occupying three looming female figures in cloaks. Even with the mist and fog covering them, he knows that they are the first three High Priestesses of the Old Religion. Their faces are covered with masks of those of their Blood Guard and Arthur’s glad. He’s scared that their faces would show so much wisdom and ruthlessness like the legends say.

The pain is so strong now, coating every inch of his body with a terrifying fire.

“It’s going to be alright,” he tells Merlin as Morgana hoists his body up to carry him to the boat. His eyes are closing.

Merlin kisses him one last time and Arthur can taste his tears. “I believe you,” he says.


	6. Chapter 6

_Your body is a map I know every inch of_   
_and if anyone else_   
_were to kiss me, all they would taste_   
_is your name._

 - Clementine Von Radics

 

When he wakes in death the second time, he’s surrounded by smells that only he could know. Hunith’s cooking in the summer, Morgana’s favourite perfume, the bricks and walls of the Camelot castle; the firewood from the campfires the lads usually make and the distant and familiar smell of his golden crown somewhere in the air. It smells like love, if love had a smell.

There’s still the faint smell and taste of apples lingering in the air and in his mouth like he’s bit his lip and bled out apple juice but he knows, somehow, that this is his real Avalon. His real afterlife, not the one that was only shared with the coming-and-going Sidhe and Freya but the one he was supposed to have if he hadn’t been so blind the first time around.

This time, Freya isn’t there to greet him in the meadow so he gets up himself and walks around. Avalon looks the same but it feels different, like a second home he’s finally gotten used to. It’s smaller and familiar, homely and everything he wanted in his last days. He no longer feels indifferent in death, instead, he can feel his body growing bigger and bigger by how much he actually feels. He feels his heart swell with the memories and love from both of his lifetimes and his death until he wants to cry from it.

Arthur exits from the meadow and goes to where Freya’s treehouse should be but, instead, finds a small cottage with smoke coming out of the chimney. It looks like a house in one of the songs, swirling around in magic and love, coloured like a children’s dream and Arthur smiles to himself when the door opens.

“My boy,” she says.

“Mother,” Arthur says, trying to hold back tears but it’s futile. His mother is here and dead with him and just as beautiful as he remembers.

When she wraps her arms around him, he can almost feel himself shrink to a little boy. She pulls away from him and wipes his tears.

“Come,” she says. “There are some people who want to see you.”

She takes his hand in hers and he’s glad for her unfaltering grip because, when they turn the corner, he can see everyone he’s lost found again. Hunith, arms circled around Balinor, and Gaius next to her; all of his lads, smiling at him like he’s told them a grand joke, and Mithian, Elena and Sam; his father and, there she is, practically glowing in death, his sister. She smiles at him, silently telling him he’s an idiot but he’s her idiot brother.

“How?” Arthur asks to no one in particular but anyone who’s willing to answer. He knows why, deep down inside; why his new Avalon seems both bigger and smaller at the same time but he’s also scared that this might just be a fabrication, that everything and everyone he’s ever loved is going to disappear like mists and whispers around campfires.

“You did well, young Pendragon,” the haunting voice of a Sidhe says.

A group of them appear next to Morgana and, for the first time, he can see glimpses of smiles on their faces. Maybe. He’s not sure. Their smiles look murderous either way.

“We let you go back,” the Sidhe says, “in the hopes you might rectify all you’ve done. The Avalon that greeted you before was an obligation on our part, because the old gods let you in, but it wasn’t in us to give you a good afterlife. So we let you go back, hoping that could change.”

“So you did this? You brought them all to me?” Arthur asks. _All the loves of my life, save for one, circled around a green meadow in a beautiful death_.

“No. You did that yourself.”

“We couldn’t control what you did when you went back, Arthur,” his mother says. “You did this all of those great things by yourself. You became exactly the person the old words wanted you to be, on your own volition. You might’ve put Merlin as the main reason as to why you did but better men wouldn’t have changed a thing. The old words might’ve told everyone your greatness but you were the one who showed it, my love.”

“You’re not a great man because some old dude or god said you were,” Kay says. “You’re a great man you decided you were going to fix your mistakes.”

For once in his life, Arthur lets himself believe the words of praise from his friends.

 

Death greets him like an old friend only, this time, it smiles and embraces him, shows him around this afterlife where there are miniature castles and cabins and cottages for his friends to live in and shows him that death is not the end of life, or love. He smiles at Freya and meets her parents and little brother, who have always been there in Avalon but invisible to him; he checks on Kay and Bedivere and Leon and the others, makes sure he hasn’t forgotten their laughter and lets Hunith and his mother coddle him like he’s a child. He doesn’t forget the precise colour of Merlin’s eyes, instead, he dedicates an entire room in his castle to everything that reminds him of Merlin.

The walls in there are sky blue and the bed is made of red and brown cloth like Merlin’s old servant clothes and one half of it is just a small forest with growing flowers and vines wrapping around the walls and trees because that’s what Merlin is to him. One part king and the other, a man of nature who just happened to wear a crown.

He tries to recreate Merlin’s smell so that whenever he comes in the room, he can feel Merlin’s presence but he guesses there are some things that even afterlife can’t do.

Arthur’s lying down in the meadow now, his head in Morgana’s lap, with her putting flowers in his hair and he doesn’t mind at all. There are no pretences in death.

“Morgana,” he says softly.

“Yes, baby brother?” she asks.

“Why did you come back for me?”

“I didn’t just come back for you, Arthur,” she says, her smile fading slowly. “I came back for me, too.”

“Yeah?” Arthur asks, sitting up and looking at her.

“Have you ever gotten that feeling when you get so angry and mad at someone that everything you do is to best them and make yourself better than everything they’ve put you through? I built my empire on that, Arthur, on rage and revenge and on my unforgiving nature to forget the abuse inflicted on me by Uther and by you. Everything I did was to bring your downfall and bring Camelot closer to me. Manipulating Mordred like that, making a kingdom that created victims so I would not hurt as they, killing that Druid girl, Kara. I killed innocents, Arthur. That was something I couldn’t forgive myself for. I had come from somewhere they hurt me and I found that the best way for me to keep my skin was to hurt others. Calculated tactics and shows of violence.

“That wasn’t right. It wasn’t…being abused and hurt doesn’t excuse me from being an abusive queen.  I cannot hate all I’ve done but I hate…most things. And Mordred, he didn’t deserve that. He deserved you, I suppose, and Merlin. A better life than manipulation. Aithusa, too. She’s a smart one, you know, better thank Merlin for that. She told me that I had to save myself, that time was running out to.

“I thought that if I saved you, if I got you to the shore and into Avalon, I thought maybe that could right my wrongs. I thought saving you could save me, too.”

“I think it did,” Arthur says and kisses her forehead.

 

He doesn’t stop watching Merlin, in fact, he watches him more. He sees little bits of their lives together bleed into his current one, like the wedding band Merlin still swears and kisses whenever he’s nervous or anxious or that one time Merlin adopted a little girl and named her Freya because Arthur told him one day that he wanted a daughter named Freya if they ever got around to it. Merlin doesn’t change much nor does the world around him because the world forgets myths and legends and that’s just the way life is.

Arthur sees it, though, the slight differences in Merlin; how his smiles are easier now and he’s kinder, somehow, less cruel and reckless. It’s like he’s strapped Arthur’s final words to his body and started living like that. Despite his promises, Merlin doesn’t find a way to stop his immortality and join him in Avalon but that’s okay. They can live and die respectively like this for a while. A little bit alive but a lot more dead when they realize their bed is empty at the end of the day. It’ll do.

For years (it seems), he watches Merlin because he promised he’d wait, too. If it’s going to be a thousand years for Merlin then it’s going to be a thousand more for Arthur.

Things start changing, though, soon after the thousand year mark. Avalon gets smaller and colder and he realizes it’s because people are leaving. His people are disappearing into smoke and distant ghost stories into the abyss; swallowed up by the lake and the promise of a new life and that’s when Arthur starts hoping. If they’re leaving then that means he will, too. It’s almost time.

None of them have time to say goodbye before life brings them back again but Arthur doesn’t mind. They’ll see each other again. That’s what destiny is for.

Soon, it’s just him left. His entire Avalon shrunken down into his small body in a big afterlife, and the smell of apples.

“Can I ask for something?” Arthur asks the Sidhe, because he feels the rattling in his bones, knowing it’s almost time to drown again.

“You can but we might not give it to you,” the Sidhe answer. They lead him to the lake at the far end of the island; the one he always knew was there.

“Don’t let me forget,” Arthur says. “Don’t let me forget my lives, don’t make me start all over again without remembering who anyone is. Let me remember.”

“We shall see, young Pendragon,” the Sidhe say with a small smile. Little blue bastards.

They push him into the lake and he breathes again.

 

Arthur is born Arthur Penn –he thanks the gods his name is still familiar, just so Merlin might find him sooner- in a small town in Exeter, England. He has an older sister –legitimate this time- named Emilie, who likes heavy metal and secretly wants to overthrow the government but even more secretly is a hopeless romantic in a cruel world. His parents aren’t Uther and Ygraine this time and for that, sometimes he cries himself to sleep, wondering how Uther would take to wireless connections and how his mum would be wonderful in the kitchen.

But he’s closer to the others. Some he recognizes straight away, like Kay, who becomes his best friend starting from elementary school onwards, and of course, Bedivere, who curiously becomes Kay’s boyfriend in this lifetime (okay, maybe not _so_ curiously); others not so much. Freya, for instance, it takes him full days to recognize her but after that, it’s too late and she’s already transferred schools to Africa. She’ll like it there, he knows, and she’ll come back to him when the time is right but he still misses her greatly.

It becomes a hobby, looking at people every day as he walks around his neighbourhood, wondering if he’s seen them before. There are too many people in his lifetimes before that are still missing; like Merlin.

The world is stranger than he remembers it from watching Merlin. He doesn’t know why but it’s like something shifted in the world after he was born. Weird things started happening, like Arthur was the catalyst of all of this, but it’s not like it’s anything really dangerous. A few flying animals and talking trees; something people became used to. Some places had it worse, like that place in the States, a small town (Nightshade? Night Vale? Evening Veil? Something like that). The scientists call them temporal shifts in time and space, called it fringe science and tried to put a name on it, but Arthur knows.

Deep down inside, in his heart of hearts, he knows the word the scientists are looking for is _magic_.

He doesn’t know how or why but it’s like Arthur’s brought magic back into the real world. The world that doesn’t believe in magic anymore, the one that now acts nonchalant around suddenly-appearing glowing blue orbs that seem to show them the direction to wherever it is they’re going and trees that _literally dance_ in the wind when it’s spring. He guesses normal is a matter of perception nowadays.

And Arthur can’t help but hope that this growing magic means that Merlin’s close to him now, that it could be any day now.

 “You alright?” Arthur asks Emilie one day after he laces up his trainers.

“Another nightmare last night,” she answers. “It’s weird that it’s the thing that keeps me awake yet I can’t remember much about it. This one’s about you, though, I remember that much.”

“You love me that much?” Arthur says and Emilie throws a shoe at him. “Em, I told you to go to the doctor’s, or actually talk to Dr Leibonwitz instead of silently judging her for her pantsuit.”

“That pantsuit is a crime against humanity. Where are you going anyway?” Emilie asks him.

“Jogging, dear sister. I’ll be back soon, don’t worry,” Arthur answers.

“Mm, I never worry about you,” Emilie says, shrugging. “Reminder that I’m doing some extra credit work tonight and I’ll need you to watch after Stephen.”

“Got it.”

Emilie was eighteen when she got pregnant with Stephen. Stephen, she named him, after that guy from Bewitched that she used to have a crush on, but as soon as he opened his eyes, Arthur knew this was Mordred reincarnated. It both terrified and excited him. On one hand, Mordred loved him again here, Arthur could make him laugh like no one else could, on the other, he was haunted by the notion that one day that love might run out.

Arthur kisses Emilie’s forehead goodbye and says, “See you later, bitch.”

“Ditto, you twat.”

Arthur laughs to himself and goes outside into the warm summer day. He thanks the gods again for letting him be born in the land that used to be Albion because it’s almost like he can see the silhouettes of his ruined castles in the city skyline. He can see gross exaggerations about his stories and laugh about them, wondering how they even got these versions. Maybe Merlin accidentally set fire or spilled water on his diaries and they became indecipherable after that. That would be the likely story, to be honest.

Almost none of the versions tell the truth, though, and sometimes Arthur’s angry about it but, other times, he’s selfish. He’s selfish because he wants the truth to himself. No one else deserves to know how Merlin was his; no one else has earned it. Not the kings and queens of this new land, who built his kingdom back from the ashes, not anyone who thinks he and Merlin never existed and wear their identities as costumes.  

Usually, when he goes out for a run, he can’t function unless there’s music or Kay’s talking his ear off next to him but there are days where he just runs around the blocks and listens to the trees as they hum in the distance. It makes him feel closer to Merlin and the old gods. There’s a power in nature, Arthur’s always thought, and he thought the trees sang even before they literally did.

Up ahead is a few shop lots and two blokes are passing around fliers to the people walking past.

“Charity concert at the hospital tomorrow night,” one guy is saying. “There are a few local bands playing and you can donate blood, too. It’s gonna be fun, guys, come on.”

“Are you going to be playing?” a teenage girl asks the other guy, who’s in a hoodie, probably thinking he’s cute but Arthur can’t see him from here.

“’Fraid not, I’m just a nurse at the hospital,” the bloke says and something in Arthur snaps. _Merlin_.

It’s Merlin. That’s Merlin’s voice. He feels entire worlds burst inside of him, supernovas blinding him and the earth underneath his feet shake. No one else feels it, everyone else is moving about like they always do but Arthur can feels the very tectonic plates shift when Merlin turns his head and pulls down his hood. He looks so young here, maybe younger than when Arthur knew him. His breath catches and knows, just knows, Merlin feels it, too.

He’s looking around, trying to find Arthur in the crowd, but his hands and feet are shaking, so volatile he might as well be a walking earthquake.

When Merlin says his name, it’s nothing more than a breath. It must be the magic growing in the world because Arthur can hear it from where he is. One breath but it sounds like Merlin hasn’t been breathing all this time and saying Arthur’s name is the only escape.

Merlin runs to him, shaking and quaking, and it takes all of Arthur to get him to still in his arms when he catches him. They’re like two natural disasters that finally found peace.

“Merlin,” Arthur says. He hopes Merlin can understand it when he says it; he’s squeezing thousands and thousands of years, all his hopes and dreams and worlds, inside two syllables.

“I know,” Merlin says and smiles. _Oh, my king_.

He kisses him, presses him close and brings him so much closer to where he should’ve been for lifetimes. The entire world seems to shake from it, a soft, golden glow surrounding all of them like an omen. This time, Arthur knows it’s not just him and Merlin who can see what’s happening.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asks after he pulls away.

“Does it matter?” Arthur says and they both laugh because it really doesn’t. Not now, not yet.

He goes back to kissing Merlin and lets the golden light shroud them. What an odd sight this must be: two young men kissing in the middle of an empty street as they’re bathed in golden light like they’re the gods people made of them.

Arthur’s phone and groans. The caller ID says it’s Emilie and he knows that if he doesn’t answer, he faces certain death.

“Morgana sucks,” Merlin says, like he knows already.

“So correct me if I’m wrong,” Emilie says when he picks up, “but you’re Arthur as in Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, and I’m Morgana and we’re all reincarnations of our former selves and now magic is being born back into the world. And you’re supposed to be banging it up with Merlin, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I’m not gonna correct you, Morgana, you already know you’re right. And Merlin’s right here, don’t worry.” Arthur makes a point by kissing Merlin’s nose as the golden light recedes into a soft glow.

“Good, make him come back to our house after you guys shag like bunnies. My magic’s back and my son suddenly has gold eyes.”

“We have a lot of shit to deal with, then,” Arthur says with a sigh.

After a moment of pause, Emilie –no, Morgana now- says, “Welcome back, Arthur.”

Arthur pulls Merlin close and kisses him again, slow because they have all the time in the world now. “What are you talking about? I’ve always been here.”

 

end.


End file.
